It takes one to know one
by The War Doctor
Summary: The story of how Harry Potter left the wizarding world, only to become the muggle version of a Dark Lord. The story of how he became a manipulative bastard. The story of how he became James Moriarty. Machiavellian!Harry
1. Chapter 1

**Seriously, I get too many author's blocks. :/**

**This is just a small story. I don't even have a proper plot yet. Oh, and Cpt. J . Harkness gave me this idea. **

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"What are the dreams usually about?" The therapist, a middle-aged woman with way too much make-up, said as she pulled out a yellow, lined note-pad.

Harry wringed his hands nervously, and glanced up at the ceiling, noticing the white paint was peeling off, smirking when he saw a little patch looked like Elvis' head. Glancing around the room, he frowned, what was he even doing here? Ah, yes, Hermione had convinced him to go to post-trauma therapy.

The room was large, and airy, although the blinds were down, letting little light through. Four sofas (on one of which Harry was sitting, the therapist on the one opposite) had been set up to create a sort of rectangle with a table in between.

There was a mahogany desk near the windows. It was messy, covered with files, papers and books about medicine but it was nothing compared to Harry's. There wasn't a computer or a technological device anywhere in sight, which didn't make much sense as this was a muggle practice. Probably because the therapists didn't want their patients to get distracted.

Hermione had insisted him on going to a muggle one, claiming they were better than wizarding ones. Harry was starting to doubt that.

"I don't know," Harry said, eyes finally resting on his battle-scarred hands. In the distance he could already hear his therapist writing on her pad. "They always start out the same way..."

Glancing up he noticed the writing had stopped and the therapist was staring at him intensely. She nodded once in encouragement. Taking a deep breath, Harry continued, "I'm in the middle of battle. Fighting, trying to hit any enemy on sight," Her face remained expressionless but he could still see disgust behind her weak mask. Somehow, after the war it had become easier to read people, to read the fears, joys... well anything really. It was like the battle at Hogwarts had made him stronger, more mature... yet very scarred.

"Then, suddenly I'm catapulted backwards. A grenade or something. Then there's someone dragging me into a room." He could see her writing on her pad quickly now, but because of the distance, he couldn't read what was being written. The story he was telling was a parallel to the one in his dreams. In his dreams, he had been thrown back by a banishing spell, then someone had dragged him back to Hogwarts.

"Then suddenly the dream changes, and I'm running, running for my life. I feel my heart hammering in my chest, quicker than it ever has. I look over my shoulder... And I see a reflection of me in a mirror." He paused as she looked up at him, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

"What does this reflection look like?" She asked, setting her pen on the paper once more. Harry ruffled his hair. He hadn't told anyone this part yet. Not even Hermione.

"Well..." Harry paused as she quickly started writing again. How could she find out so much from one word? "It's me... only older. Mid thirties... I'm wearing a tailored suit. My hair is jelled back. I have a maniac grin on my face. But my eyes, they look old, like they have seen so much. They aren't sad though." Pausing, Harry listened to his heart beat which was accelerating. He could feel the delighted blush on his cheeks and he tried to fight it down, "They are the eyes of a sociopathic genius. And there at the top of the mirror." He closed his eyes, remembering every single detail of the golden framed mirror. "At the top," He reopened his eyes, only to see the therapist staring at him again, "There's a long sentence."

"What is that sentence, Jim?" The therapist asked, crossing her legs. Harry had given her a fake name. James Moriarty. He didn't want someone to go digging for gossip and find his name in this database. Him being a celebrity in the wizarding world... Well, he just didn't want to risk it.

"It says: _The mirror of Erised." _Pausing for a second, he re-linked his hands once more. "Desire spelled backwards."

When he looked up again, the therapist had finished writing. She cleared her throat.

"That's very detailed." She commented and placed the pad on the table between them. Harry glanced at it, quickly catching the words, _abused, running from past_ and _war_ on it. His response was a lazy shrug. Wizards, after all, _did _have a more advanced mind. Especially those who pracitced occlumency, which Harry was trying to master. So far, he'd managed to create a flimsy library in which he could store memories.

"Well, Harry. Our time is up for today." She said and Harry glanced at the clock. An hour had passed since he'd come in. Great. He'd just wasted an hour of his life. Harry stood up quickly, and re-buttoned his too-large blazer. He'd gone along with Hermione's pleads for once, and dressed in a slightly more formal way than usual. Usually he just slipped on a baggy t-shirt, loose trousers and a pair of black converse. Today, however he'd actually put on a blazer, albeit with a pair of blue jeans, but nevertheless, it was something.

"Well, it was nice meeting you Ms. Thompson," Harry said formally, face completely emotionless. The therapist stood up as well and took the proffered hand with a gentle smile.

"I've already told you, Jim, call me Ella." Harry nodded once but didn't obey. He only called people by their first name if they were family (kind of) or just close friends. "I hope you decide to come back," Ella said quietly. Harry shrugged.

"I'll think about it." Yeah, as if he was ever coming back to this place.

When he stepped out of the room, and back into the waiting room, he looked around. An old lady was sitting in a corner, murmuring something to a teddy-bear, and wiping her eyes with a tissue every now and then. A young man in his early twenties was sitting closer to the door, headphones plugged into his ears, staring at the floor and a Walkman in his hand.

A secretary on the other side of the room looked up as Harry left the therapy room and she glanced down at her notes.

"Watson, John!" She called out, "For pre-war counselling!"

Harry glanced at the young man who suddenly jumped up, grinning as he stuffed the Walkman into his large pocket. Then without another sound, he disappeared into the room.

"We hope to see you soon!" The secretary said as Harry left through the front door.

"Yeah, see you," He muttered quietly.

He never came back.

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**So there... A prologue for this story! I hope you liked it.  
**

**This was just something I typed up in an hour or two... So, I don't really have a real plot yet (well, more or less). **

**Anyway, like it? Hate it? Should I continue it? Is Harry too out of character? **

**Oh, and did anyone notice that John's therapist's name was Ella Thompson? XD**

**Anyway, thanks for reading. XD**

**Oh... And has anyone realized who Harry will be in the future?**


	2. Chapter 2

**There you go... A second chapter in a week. Aren't I nice? XD **

**Anyway, thank you for all the favs, follows and reviews. I try to reply to all of them but I can't to anonymous reviews. So thanks guests!**

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Harry grinned happily to himself as he fell down on his small bed. It was nothing compared to the rooms they had at Hogwarts, after all, those had been luxurious, with en suite bathrooms and large four poster beds with curtains... but it was still something he could call his own.

The Oxford university rooms however, weren't quite so luxurious.

The room was relatively small, with two beds, standing opposite each other and two closets next to their respective beds. Two desks had been set on opposite sides of the room, so as not to cause much disturbance to the roommate.

Glancing around again, Harry noticed absently that his roommate had already moved in for the start of the term. The bed wasn't made, in fact, a large part of the sheets was on the floor, mixing with socks, old underwear and sports t-shirts which all smelled funny. Perhaps, the roommate had been here longer than he'd originally though.

The desk, which the unnamed roommate had already claimed, was covered with papers, notebooks, folders, wrappers from old snacks... and there, standing proudly on the edge of the table, almost threatening to fall, was a laptop.

It wasn't like Harry hadn't ever seen a laptop, no far from it, he'd seen many laptops and computers. After all, Dudley seemed to get one for his birthday every year. It had been almost ten years since he'd used one properly and he was sure that if someone were to throw a laptop into his arms, he wouldn't even know how to turn it on in the first place. Somehow wizards were so centred upon staying conservative, that they didn't even seem to notice the world evolve around them.

Snorting, Harry stood up and grabbed the laptop, then settled himself back on the bed, head bend in concentration. Hadn't Hermione once said one could store information within these muggle plastic things? Frowning, he imagined what the Ministry of Magic would be like with computers... probably more organized. After all, he'd witnessed some trails of Death-Eaters after the war, the mounds of scrolls had been horrifying. How anyone could find a scrap of information in those things was beyond him.

Flipping the laptop over, Harry saw a bitten apple sticker had been stuck to the back of the screen. Surely that meant something? While walking to his room, he'd seen several students carrying these laptops, with different designs, but nevertheless, with the apple sticker.

Perhaps that was a company? Well, he'd have to find out and buy some shares. Possibly even convince the owner to buy some 30% of the company. He could almost see it in his mind, clear as day, this company would be successful, after all, these students who were using these laptops, would probably be using them ten years into the future.

Aha! There, a small button with a circle and a line through it. That was the on/off button, right? Pressing it, he watched in delight as the screen brightened and suddenly a text in white was speeding downwards. Just as he was about to shut the laptop down in frustration, the screen turned blue and a window popped up, titled password.

Right... What could his roommate's password be? Glancing around the room again, Harry noticed a Liverpool football t-shirt hanging at the end of the bed. Raising an eyebrow, Harry typed Liverpool into the small box, fingers hesitating over the letters, trying to memorize where everything was. The screen shook itself slightly, and a message in red appeared at the bottom, signifying the password was wrong.

Rolling his eyes, Harry looked around the room again, but his eyes seemed to keep falling on the t-shirt. It was then he noticed a name on the back of the t-shirt. A fan, possibly?

Typing Michael Owen into the box, Harry grinned as this time, the window disappeared and instead, revealed a picture of what Harry presumed to be his roommate and father?... possibly uncle? But, no, they had no resemblance. Godfather then. Maybe.

Shrugging, and not really caring, Harry examined the young man, while the files popped up on the screen. He was of average height, but looked groomed. Well, like any other young man who actually cared about his appearance. In the picture, he was dressed in a tail coat and had a silly straw hat under his arm. Harrow, then?

Grinning, Harry moved his finger on the softer part of the laptop, moving the mouse quickly to the first folder titled Harrow-Party. It'd be good to have some dirt on his roommate... if he ever witnessed something, Harry couldn't let anyone hear.

Blinking, Harry registered his last thought... Why would he ever need to withhold information? It wasn't like he was doing anything illegal. Well, apart from paying a man to hack the birth records of England to fashion himself a new identity.

Harry grinned as he thought back to the memory.

Hermione had been badgering him to go back to Hogwarts for some time now, but he'd refused. No, he wouldn't ever be able to fit in with his classmates ever again. Well, it wasn't as if he'd ever fit in in the first place. He was too different. The final battle had changed him in more ways than he'd ever imagined.

It was like someone had finally been repressing his real intelligence all these years. Possibly the Horcrux in his head. Suddenly, all the people around him... Well they were ducks. Unintelligent apes that roamed this Earth, just asking to get manipulated... Harry blinked as he caught himself again. Manipulated? Where had _that _come from? And why did that sound so much like a Slytherin? No, Harry said firmly to himself, he'd use his intelligence for good.

That had actually been one of the main reasons why he'd been studying the past few months, catching up on all of the work he'd missed. Well, it wasn't like he'd done much. After all, he'd only had a couple of months to complete a seven-year long curriculum. But he'd gone over the basics.

Then, without telling anyone, he had created himself a new identity, James Howard Moriarty. A small nod of respect towards his father. He'd gotten the hacker to create him an education (all perfect marks), and a background story which claimed he was an orphan who grew up in London, homeschooled by nuns who ran his orphanage.

As far as Oxford was concerned, he was a prodigy who'd been unfortunate in life. They had instantly gotten a scholarship, as Harry couldn't even imagine paying the large sum needed to study at Oxford. His parents had left him money... but only enough for seven years education. So Harry had taken all of his money and converted it into pounds. Which had unfortunately only been a couple of thousands.

He hadn't told anyone where he was going, after all, Hermione and Ron would have probably followed him, bringing a large horde of people with them.

After the war, the magical community had put him on the pedestal, worshipping his very name, the very streets he walked on. Then the responsibilities had started. As the new 'Light Lord' (although Harry despised the title, seeing as he was far from being light), he suddenly had large expectations. Expectations and responsibilities he didn't even want.

Basically, it all got too much for him. In a way, he wanted to work in the shadows, much like Slughorn did on a daily basis. He didn't want to be the hero on the pedestal. Instead of Hercules, he wanted to be one of the more subtle shadows guiding and molding the heroes on their paths to defeat.

Furrowing his eyebrows, Harry threw a hand through his head, making it messier than it had ever been. He really had to stop thinking like a Slytherin. _Or what? _Said a small voice in his head and he hesitated. Was it really _that _bad to embrace his Slytherin side?

Not all Slytherins were bad, Slughorn had been alright... and he'd been a manipulative bastard. Then again, Dumbledore had been a Gryffindor, and a manipulative bastard as well.

But what _was _so bad about him being a Slytherin? Yes, they were bastards, yes they were manipulative, yes they were devious... but most of them, were alright. Somewhere deep down. Very deep down.

Before Harry could continue with his reverie, he had clicked on the 'next' button several times; revealing a picture of the same young man from the desktop, getting some rather inappropriate things done to him. Raising an eyebrow, Harry quickly memorized it, and stowed it away into his little mind-house. If he got hold of a magazine sometime in the future, he could then threaten his roommate to reveal his pictures if he didn't do something for Harry.

Harry blinked, and shook his head to clear it from all thoughts. Right, he was getting ahead of himself.

Quickly shutting down the computer, he placed it back in the exactly same place he had found it and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. The desire to smoke one was slowly starting to bite at him.

He was about to light his cheap cigarette when the door was thrown open and a young man; the same one from the photographs, stumbled into the room, without the grace the upper class usually seemed to be born with.

"Hello!" He said spotting Harry. His face split into a large smile as he bounded to Harry and extended his hand. Harry took it carefully, and shook it with a small polite smile. Ah... Aristocrat, judging by the ring on his finger... Perhaps... He would be the first of his web?

"Good afternoon," Harry said formally, a small graceful smile gracing his face effortlessly. After all, he _had _completed his responsibilities for a couple of months before he ran away. Some of the charisma had stayed. "I'm James Moriarty."

The young man just grinned back, "Nice to meet you, Moriarty! The name's Cameron, David Cameron." They shook hands and Harry noticed absently that David's fingers were very calloused... Studious, then?

"Erm... Mate, do you mind putting it away?" David said suddenly, as he pulled his arm back, suddenly looking nervous and tense, although he was hiding it well. Harry blinked in surprise as he saw his roommate's eyes zeroed on the cigarette between his fingers, and the lighter resting on the palm of his hand. Raising an eyebrow, Harry stuffed both things into his pocket, smirking internally as he saw the relieved expression cross David's face.

Had he smoked before? Well, judging by the way he was eyeing Harry's pocket, it had been something stronger than tobacco. Interesting.

"It's against the rules, no smoking inside," David said, trying to cover up his mistake. Harry nodded earnestly, eyes wide and innocent.

"Yeah, of course... So, how long have you been here?"

"Just a little over six months. I was at Brasenose College, you know, just round the corner, earlier in the year, but they moved me here when some spots got emptied."

Right, that was just the diplomatic way of saying he'd been moved to another House after having a fight or something. So, his roommate was aggressive, a horrible liar and came from a good background.

Perfect for a politician.

"Oi! Cameron!" Came a voice from the hallway and both Harry and David turned to the sound of the voice. Standing there was a tall man. Excessively tall. Well, perhaps it seemed to be like that because he was so excessively lean. His eyes were icy and cold, which made his face look much older than it really was. His lips were thin, and pulled back in a mock-snarl. His cheeks were sallow, as if he hadn't had enough to drink for some days now and resting on his incredibly thin and long nose, were a pair of thin glasses.

"Charlie! Hi." Charlie shot a glare at David. Friends then? Or enemies? Or friends with benefits?

"You still owe me," Charlie said calmly, with a slight Danish accent, and Harry had a sudden feeling that 'Charlie' didn't suit him all that well. David frowned at him as Charlie advanced, who stopped walking a few seconds later, about half a meter in front of David and Harry.

"Yeah, well Charlie, you didn't give me the exam yet." David said, standing his ground. Harry looked between them, refusing to let his emotions through. Was this Charlie the dealer in the university? There was always one of them hidden in plain sight.

"Money first," Charlie said, eyes flashing and without another word, turned to Harry.

"Charles Magnussen," He said pulling out his hand to shake Harry's, who took it without hesitation. This guy wouldn't be easy to manipulate, but he would be worth it. This guy would be big someday.

"Jim Moriarty," Harry said, with a small smirk on his face. Right, 'Charles' seemed more appropriate for such a cold bastard. This guy would have been good in Slytherin.

Magnussen was dressed in an immaculate pin striped suit, tailored to fit his figure perfectly. So, good background as well. His face betrayed little, except for small crease lines at the edges of his eyes, signifying he either laughed or smirked a lot. Probably the latter. His hand were soft, meaning he'd never done a lot of manual labour, they were also quite sweaty, as Harry noticed when their skin touched.

The name Magnussen seemed familiar, and Harry mentally furrowed his eyebrows, thinking back to the last time he'd heard it. Ah, yes, Luna had been telling him excitedly about this new newspaper owner in the wizarding world. Apparently, he and his family were all squibs but owned many newspapers in both world and had a large influence on society because of that. So, this was the heir of it all then.

"Pleasure to meet you," Harry said cordially, trying to ignore the intense, assessing look Magnussen was giving him.

"He's scanning you for your pressure point..." David stage-whispered into his ear, "It's like your own personal weakness. He finds one in each person, he even found one in me."

Harry glanced at David, rolling his eyes in exasperation, "You mean your cannabis addiction you used to have? Hardly a hard deduction."

At this, the look intensified.

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**So there... New chapter. You'll meet Sherlock next... So stay tuned!  
**

**Thanks for reading. If you have any questions or anything to say- leave a review. **

**If you just want to review... Then review. If you don't, don't... (But I'd appreciate it XD)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you so much for reading this story so far! And thank you for all the favs, follows and reviews! I appreciate them all so much XD. Thanks to all those who reviewed, but do not have an account on ... I usually try to answer all of them XD. **

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_Harry glanced at David, rolling his eyes in exasperation, "You mean your cannabis addiction you used to have? Hardly a hard deduction."_

_At this, the look intensified._

Before anyone could say anything to break the tense silence, there was a loud tap on the window. The three heads slowly moved to stare at the window sill, on which an owl was tapping. It stared at them for a brief moment, before continuing it's insistent tapping.

It was a barn owl - one of those usually seen at the Ministry of Magic or at post offices, although the usually white forehead was adorned with a family crest. The _Weasley _family crest. And in his beak, the owl held a thick envelope made out of parchment.

Glancing at his two companions, Harry saw that while David was staring at the owl with wide eyes, Magnussen's thin mouth had stretched into a maniac grin as his eyes flickered between Harry and the owl.

How had this happened? He'd done all those precautions, so that no one found him. For goodness sake! He'd even created his own wards, which didn't allow anyone without his blood to be able to localize him. Well, obviously, they had managed to find a way around the wards. At the thought of _they, _Harry's mind instantly zeroed on Hermione. Yep, she was behind this, as usual.

Taking an imaginary deep breath, which was surprisingly effective, Harry strode forward, and opened the window harshly, making it swing all the way to the wall, causing a loud noise sound throughout the room. The owl flew around the room twice before gliding down to Harry's desk.

Harry racked his brain for the name of the owl, briefly remembering seeing it at the Weasley house. Ah, yes, Errol was it? The owl which couldn't help but crash-land everywhere, every time. Well perhaps, except this time. The Weasley's were probably in London, judging by how tired the owl was, meaning, not very.

With a scowl at the owl, he untied the letter and with one harsh movement of his finger, he ripped it open.

The parchment that fell out was thick, and surprisingly of good quality. Since when were the Weasley's so well off? As Harry unfolded the letter he noticed another Weasley family crest on the top.

_Dea_r_ Harry, _The letter read, in Hermione's sharp handwriting.

_How could you!? How could you leave like that? You have responsibilities here! **IN the Wizarding World. **In case you haven't noticed, you defeated Voldemort, you are the new Light Lord. Live up to your expectations for once - become the head of the Wizengamot, marry Ginny and create three beautiful children that will go to Hogwarts with Ron's and mine!_

_We don't know where you are. We don't know if you're alive. But please come back. Ron and I are getting married on Christmas day. See! At least some of us are living to our expectations! Stop this rebellious nonsense!_

_Frankly, right now, I don't care where you are. _

_So, I demand you come back from wherever you are. You're lucky you were always such a genius with wards and incognito spells, if not, we would simply use a tracking charm. Fortunately, I did find a flaw in your wards. Owls can fly through if the letters have your full name on them._

_Harry, please come back. Everyone is so sad. No one knows where you went. Everyone is panicking... The Dark side is rising once more. _

_Love Hermione._

Harry raised an eyebrow, she sure was demanding. His eyebrows rose further when he saw the last part had been scribbled quickly, as if Hermione was unsure about writing it in the first place and frankly... it looked like she was quite scared of something.

Right, so shoving aside all of the drivel about his expectations, Harry focused on the 'The Dark side is rising once more'. Had Lucius managed to escape the clutches of the ministry again? Or had Draco followed in his footsteps?

Ah, well, it wasn't really his concern. He'd already defeated one Dark Lord. _If _he ever returned to the wizarding world, it would be to mess around and have some fun screwing people's minds up. Blinking hurriedly, Harry tried to repel the sadistic thoughts from his mind. Those had to be kept away for the time being.

Two muggles - no - a muggle and a _squib _were standing behind him... Harry's eyes widened as he realized his last thought. Squib.

A squib in the newspaper business.

As he slowly turned around, Harry's eyes caught Magnussen's which were glinting with triumph. Great. The man knew who he really was. There was a sudden squawk, as the barn-owl tried to remind them that it was still there. When no one reacted, the bird huffed and left through the open window.

"What. The. Hell... was that?!" David exclaimed, eyes wide.

"... Barn-owl. My... friends and I use them to communicate. They are specially trained to come from me to them." The lie rolled easily off his tongue, and as Harry glanced at Magnussen, he saw the bastard grinning at him, eyes promising something quite threatening.

"Really?" David said, staring at him, "That's magnificent! Do you think I could train a bird to do that?"

"Well, it's a very complicated process, first you have to get a bird license, then you have to buy the bird, then you have to train it, and then you have to introduce it to your friend so that it feels entirely comfortable with them." Harry, said, an apologetic smile on his face. David raised an eyebrow.

"Can't I just buy one?" Rich brat. Magnussen on the other hand was gazing at them bemusedly.

"Well, I shall be going... I have to get my money. Cameron - you have 24 hours. If you don't pay me by then...You can imagine what the papers will print about your family." Magnussen said, with a small snarl on his lips, "Oh, and _Moriarty, _good luck with the muggles, I expect it'll be easy to dance around them. Do pass on my love to Lovegood."

With that, the man spun on one heel and left the room with an elegant yet dangerous looking stalk. Instantly, Harry heard David release a large breath, and as he turned to the aristocrat, Harry saw he was shaking slightly, looking nervous and worried.

"David?" Harry said with slight concern, after all, this guy was his roommate. How the hell had _that _happened. One moment, Harry could barely see a line of worry on David's face, then suddenly the poor kid was having a panic attack. _Maybe_ his masks were better than Harry had originally thought.

"Oh, God. Magnussen scares the shit out of me." He paused, "The guy's a guest student from Denmark, he only arrived about fourth months ago... Yet he has something on every student here. And with everyone being influential here... Well, he'll be powerful in the future." He paused, "What's that with the code words anyway?"

Harry put a consoling hand on his shoulder, feeling very awkward. Didn't girls usually do this sort of thing? And anyway, how had Magnussen managed to gain black-mail on everyone so quickly? Perhaps he had a magical device? Did he use Legilimency?(But no, Harry would have felt the nudge against his mind, his shields weren't _that _bad.) So was it the Imperious curse? - Well that was a thought for his own plans...

"Code words?" Harry finally asked.

"Yeah, you know. He said something about a 'Love Good', whatever that is. And he mentioned a... muggle?"

Harry chuckled silently and sat down on the edge of his desk, the letter (now scrunched up) still in his hand. "We just have a mutual... friend. Her name is Lovegood. Muggles are just generally people."

"People... Belonging to a special society I presume?" David said with a raised eyebrow. Harry winked at him.

"Got it in one." He paused for a second, "Now, where are my swimming trunks?"

...

Harry sighed as he tugged on his swimming cap, trying to tuck his messy hair under the rubber fabric, only succeeding in electrifying it, and make it even messier than earlier. It had been a harsh, long month at Oxford University, but he had managed to get several people on his side, the rest were acquaintances who respected him for his unsurpassable math and politics skills.

He still didn't know why maths seemed to come so easily to him, he'd never taken math (or arithmancy) at Hogwarts, and he hadn't studied the subject since 1991. Well, he'd done a quick revision before entering Oxford, but that had been it. Maybe it was because of his amazingly organized mind and his almost impeccable occlumency skills.

So far, he'd managed to create a castle, not unlike Hogwarts, only this one was a dark version. It stood at the top of a hill, surrounded by a long tall fence made out of black steel. The castle itself was a maze, one large maze, much more challenging and complicated than the one at the Triwizard tournament. And there, in a small pocket universe, behind a painting of Bach (who was for some reason petting a fox) ***1, **was his even larger library of memories, information and knowledge. Well, it wasn't like anyone would be able to figure that out any time soon.

As he had promised himself, he'd bought a large part of the 'Apple' company, and still owed them a couple of million of dollars, but as soon as he had time, he'd go to some bar and play some poker. Memorizing the cards had become ridiculously easy with his mind palace.

He'd joined several clubs at Oxford to meet people, after all, contacts were the key. Contacts and money. In the arts club (at which he was utterly horrible), he'd met a czech woman, Joanne Wenceslas, so amazingly good at copying paintings, he had instantly befriended her. Who knew, maybe he'd have to sell fake paintings in the future.

What had surprised him greatly had been the orchestra. Of course, it wasn't like he had actually started playing an instrument, after all the others were just way too advanced for him. No, he'd been listening in so often that eventually he'd been offered to come in and judge them. That was were he'd discovered his passion for Bach.

The club though, that had been most use for him though, had been the swimming club. There he'd discovered Sebastian Moran, a brilliant swimmer, but also a very loyal friend. His father was apparently one of the few MPs in the parliament who had inherited the position, making him one of the most treasured MPs. And one day, Moran would be in his place.

The one downside of the club was the swimming team. Or rather, a member of the swimming team. Carl Powers.

The man seemed to insist on picking on every single thing he didn't like - and forced his gang to do the same. Unfortunately he didn't like Harry that much. Harry knew he shouldn't be bothered, after all, Malfoy had always been a greater nuisance than this little brat. But somehow, Powers always seemed to find the right buttons to press and if he hadn't been such a mediocre student, Harry was sure he would have tried to befriend him. But right now, he was infuriating him.

Glancing around him, Harry examined the locker room with interest. At Cambridge University they seemed to have a lower budget for sports, as the lockers all needed a new coat of paint, and the benches were all splintered, graffiti here and there.

They, meaning the swimming team, were at Cambridge University for a swimming competition. And right now, Carl Powers was being his arrogant self again. He was admittedly a good swimmer, but his arrogance got to him sometimes and made him lose races. In a way, Harry hoped Powers would drop his arrogant attitude for now and just win the race.

Or die and give everyone else some peace.

Well... That wasn't a bad idea.

Harry slapped himself mentally as his brain caught up with what he had just thought about. No, he wasn't about to kill anyone. He wasn't about to become some sort of psychopath.

Or was he? After all, a month and a half ago, he'd told himself he'd never become a manipulative arsehole. What had happened? He'd become a manipulative arsehole. Besides, he'd never get away with murder. Not like that anyway. Where would he hide the murder weapon? He turned to the window, and stared out, not quite looking anywhere.

Well he _could _find some morphine or something and chug it down Power's throat, then make him asphyxiate in the water. But where would he get the morphine?

Blinking slightly, Harry changed his focus from the actual window, to the buildings beyond. The science block.

And then, as the plan slowly started forming in Harry's mind, a small smile started tugging at his lips. And soon, he was staring out the window, a manic grin etched on his face not unlike the one he saw in his dreams.

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**There you go - that was a short chapter... But what the hell. Who cares.  
**

**Anyway, thank you for reading... please, oh please leave a review. Tell me what you think... And if you have any requests for Harry/Jim meeting anyone - just tell me. I might squeeze it into the plot XD.**

**Oh and *1: Moriarty mentioned once that he loved Bach... And the fox - well there's a story in Grimm's Fairy tales, of a fox who faked his own suicide. Oh and Moriarty was wearing a fox pin at the end of the Reichenbach Falls. XD I hope someone else noticed that. XD If not - I'm just jumping to conclusions. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Wow! Thanks for the amazing reviews and all the favs, follows and well... Everything. Thanks to all _Guests _as well. I would really advise you to get an account. I love to answer reviewers - unfortunately I cannot do so if you do not have an account. ;( So thanks...**

* * *

_And then, as the plan slowly started forming in Harry's mind, a small smile started tugging at his lips. And soon, he was staring out the window, a manic grin etched on his face not unlike the one he saw in his dreams._

Glancing at his team-mates - a group of nineteen people, including him - Harry pulled off his swimming cap, somehow sure that his hair was even messier than before. Perhaps one day, he'd find a proper jell which actually held his hair down for an extended period of time.

"Jim? We're off for our practice swim now, aren't you coming?" Sebastian Moran suddenly whispered to him, looking around at the other team-mates who were fooling around, throwing shaving cream at each other and spraying deodorant everywhere. Harry raised an eyebrow and turned to the other student, gesturing at the swimmers he said, "Do you really think _they _are going for a swim anytime soon?"

Moran blushed like a school boy who had just been scolded by his favourite teacher.

"Er... No. Sorry, Jim." He said, with an apologetic tone and an awkward smile. Harry patted him on the head like an owner finally giving his dog attention.

"No, no, it's quite alright." Harry muttered quietly, "Most of you are ducks anyway." He paused for a second, gazing at Moran, assessing him, would he be up for the job? Well, Moran wasn't a bad liar... but then again, he wasn't a very good one either.

"Listen, Moran, I need to disappear for a while. About... fifteen minutes. Not more. If they ask, I'm having a smoke - and nervous as hell. Looking pale. Like I'll vomit." Without waiting for an answer, Harry quickly stood up and put his thin sports stuff on, and a knee length overcoat, which hung limply over his thin shoulders and grabbed his blue scarf Andromeda had gotten him for his last birthday. Then, without another word, he stuck his hands into his pockets, the right one clutched the cigarette pack, grabbed Carl's asthma medicine (which lay discarded on one of the benches) and left the changing rooms, leaving Moran to explain everything if anyone asked.

It was cold, dark and snowing outside. The ground was covered with a thin layer of snow, which crunched slightly under his feet. Well, by the time they'd launch an investigation, the footprints would be long gone. Hopefully.

With that thought, Harry quickly rushed towards the science labs. The door was locked, and Harry instantly regretted not bringing his wand along. Well, it wasn't like he ever used the wand that much anymore. In general, he didn't use much magic anymore. Well, there was the odd imperious or obliviate somewhere there, but other than that, his wand was kept in the safe under lock and key.

Frowning at his own stupidity, Harry pulled out his cigarette pack and gently pulled the foil paper out and rolled it into a thin rod. Then folding it in half, Harry made sure it was thick and hard enough, then he pushed it into the lock.

After several tense moments of wiggling the rod here and there, there was a sudden clicking sound and Harry grinned as the door gently swung open to reveal a large, darkened room. Counters upon counters stood one behind the other, each complete with a sink, heater, microscope and several test tubes. The rest of the things were probably in the cupboards to the right. The left wall of the room was just basically a large window of glass, extending all the way to the back, creating the sort of fish-tank atmosphere. In the distance, Harry could see several specks of light - the town probably. Perhaps turning on the lights was too risky.

Frowning at his misfortune, Harry pulled out his phone - a battered old thing from motorolla - and turned it on, the light from the screen enough for him to move around without knocking anything over. As an afterthought, he pulled out his leather gloves and shoved them on his hands. He'd have to erase the fingerprints on the door handle later.

The first cupboard was open, but was unfortunately filled with books. The second was the same. And the third. The sixth though was locked, and grinning, Harry pulled out the rod from before.

Seconds later the cupboard door had swung open to reveal a large selection of chemicals. And luckily enough, there was a sign stuck to the inside of the door, telling him which chemicals were most dangerous and what causes they had on the human body.

His finger slowly made it's way down the list. _Arsine, Bisperoxide, Bromine, Chorine Pentafluoride... _Aha! _Clostridium botulinum_!

Well, that wasn't exactly morphine - perhaps a little stronger, but it served it's needs. It was a sort of bacteria which caused a severe flaccid paralytic disease on humans and animals alike. Basically, when the bacteria reached the muscles (and rather quickly at that) it paralysed them instantly... Even the respiratory muscles - leading to instant suffocation. Less than one μg could cause this reaction to the body and if someone examined a large quantity of liquid with a microscope, they wouldn't find anything. The perfect solution.

Grinning, Harry's eyes roamed the shelves, looking for the bottle with the the same name. Finally spotting it at the back, he pulled out Carl's medicine and dropped a couple of drops of the bacteria into the medicine. With a small smile, which Harry thought was somehow not really appropriate for a moment such as this, Harry put everything back in it's place, locked the cupboard and left through the front door - luckily not forgetting to clean and lock the door.

Right, now all he had to do, was go to the back of the swimming hall, light up a cigarette and wait for the coach to pull him away. At least he would have a sort-of alibi, _if, _and only _if, _it was decided Carl's _unfortunate _death was a murder.

Leaning against the back of the hall was another man. His featured were half hidden by the shadow of the gym hall and the only light that landed on his face, was the yellow lamp light which made him look slightly sick. Perhaps he _was _sick. Or a drug addict, judging by the scent of burning cannabis in the air.

"'Ello," Harry said, joining the other man, at the opposite side of the wall, a distance of about three metres between them. The other man barely glanced at him, but his head _did _cock to the side in interest for a second, going into the light and throwing his face into sharp relief.

His cheekbones were abnormally high and sharp, casting shadows on his hollow cheeks, making him look thinner than he really was. His hair was slightly curly, and fell everywhere - as if he'd forgotten to brush it in the morning. He was tall, taller than Harry, and this was only emphasized by a long overcoat he wore over a Cambridge pullover and an untucked t-shirt. His trousers were ripped in places, as if he didn't really care about his appearance. His shoes, large yellow converse, were soaked through and Harry was sure that if the man were to start walking, he would hear a squelching sound.

And between his chemical and tobacco stained fingers, he held a self-made cigarette, which was smoking slightly.

"Hi," The man replied, his voice cracking slightly. How old was he anyway? About seventeen or eighteen, judging by the clothes. Wasn't that what most teenagers wore these days?

"Cigarette?" The man said, pulling out his own pack of self-made cigarettes and offering them to Harry. Harry politely declined with a shake of his head and pulled out his own pack, waving it in the air with a smile.

"Camel. I like them so much more."

"Well," Said the man, shrugging, "Suit yourself." Then with one swift movement, the pack was back in his overcoat. They stood in silence for a moment as Harry tried to light his cigarette, trying to shield it away from the wind. Closing his eyes, Harry inhaled deeply, sighing in contentment as he felt the smoke curl down his throat and down to his lungs. Instantly, his muscles seemed to relax and his shoulders lost the weight that had been set upon them. After all, he _was _about to murder someone.

"You look like you're under a lot of stress." Stated the man suddenly, taking a drag from his own cigarette. Harry shrugged, and flicked his own up an down, to get rid of the ashes.

"Yeah, I suppose. You know, expectations and such." He said and loosened the scarf around his neck, already feeling the adrenaline from smoking heating up his body.

"Why'd you start with drugs, then?" Harry asked, sniffing the air slightly. The man raised an elegant eyebrow.

"Very good. How did you deduce that?"

Harry blinked at him. Deduce? Like that old novel about Shana Holcoshire - the detective from the wizarding world who deduced things from trails of magic left on people?

"Well, your fingers are stained by chemicals - either it's your hobby or you make the drugs yourself. Or both. _And _you're smoking... cannabis, is it?" Harry said, taking another deep drag from his cigarette. The man nodded appreciatively.

"Yes... You're right." He said almost hesitatingly, as if annoyed he had to admit someone was as smart as him. Harry just grinned at him.

"Good to know not the whole world is full of ducks." He said with a smile, eliciting a snort of amusement from the druggie.

"Oxford then? You're with the swimming team I presume?"

Before Harry could do so much as open his mouth to answer, he was interrupted by a loud yell.

"JAMES! YOU GREAT BUGGER! GET YOUR LAZY ARSE OVER HERE AND ACTUALLY DO SOME SWIMMING FOR ONCE!"

Harry winced slightly as the coach rounded the corner of the hall and zeroed on Harry who quickly threw the cigarette on the ground, stamping on it once or twice to put it out. The coach, a large man with a mousy moustache, stopped in front of him, a furious expression on his face.

"YOU GREAT TWAT! GET INSIDE RIGHT NOW!" He yelled, spitting onto Harry's face. "AND GET THAT DAMN SCARF OFF! I HATE BLUE!" With that the coach ripped the scarf off Harry's neck and threw it to the ground and with one swift movement, he grabbed hold of Harry's jacket and started pulling him to the doors.

As they both disappeared inside, none of them noticed the lone figure scoop up the blue scarf, look at it thoughtfully, before shrugging and tugging it around his neck.

...

The moment they entered the changing rooms, the coach threw Harry onto the bench and with a gaze that could have killed, he turned to address the team who was staring at Harry. Rolling his eyes, he started undressing, avoiding Moran's gaze.

"Right, team. It's ten to eight. The competition starts at eight. We'll go out there now, and show the little Cambridge buggers who the boss is in this country. I want our banner on the swimming cup this year. As usual - Powers, you'll be doing the double. The rest of you - normal run."

There was a sudden flurry of activity as everyone stood up, grabbing their sweaters and water bottles. Suddenly feeling nervous, Harry stood up as well, clutching Carl's medicine in his right hand. This was where his pick pocketing skills would have to come into use.

It wasn't that hard though, Powers wasn't even paying attention. He had straightened up arrogantly, ready to face his adoring fans. After all, he _was _one of the best swimmers in the country. And as the man pulled his cap on, Harry quickly and swiftly threw the asthma medicine into Powers' pocket.

...

After one practice lap, the coach had pulled Harry out of the pool, claiming he was not concentrating. Well, who would be concentrating if they were about to commit murder. For that reason, Harry was now sitting in the Oxford part of the stands, next to a man, Reynold Williams, he knew from their politics seminar.

Shifting his gaze at the Oxford swimmers, Harry saw them sitting nervously on the benches, biting their lips nervously. Harry noticed with satisfaction that Powers had pulled out his asthma medicine and had sprayed some of it down his throat.

And Powers was about to swim.

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**I apologize for the short chapter. But I thought these three scenes at Oxford had to be put together in one chapter... And sorry for the really short Sherlock scene - but I thought that a longer conversation would have not been deleted from Sherlock's mind... In the future - he doesn't seem to know the name Moriarty... So...  
**

**Anyway, thanks for reading and for keeping with the story so far. XD**

**Please leave a review. I would really love to hear what you think. I don't mind if it's criticism... as long as it's constructive. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Well there you go, another chapter. And it's only because I'm in such a good mood - I just reached 200 followers (in my other story). **

**Someone left a review recently . for some reason I couldn't answer it - but, anyway, the person mentioned that Carl Powers actually died from some feet cream - and that was why the killer had to take the shoes. Erm... Sorry, I forgot about that, so I just put asthma. I would change it - but I don't want to replace the last chapter with a new one - that'd be just confusing for you guys. So... Yeah.  
**

**Thanks for reading, following and fav - ing, I appreciate every single thing. XD**

**Oh, and any guest reviewers - please write a name - any name so I can answer your questions here. Thanks XD**

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_Shifting his gaze at the Oxford swimmers, Harry saw them sitting nervously on the benches, biting their lips nervously. Harry noticed with satisfaction that Powers had pulled out his asthma medicine and had sprayed some of it down his throat._

_And Powers was about to swim._

Somehow, it gave Harry an amazing feeling of satisfaction and slight amount of repulsiveness to see Carl Powers jump into the pool, a slightly dazed look about him. Instantly, as the five swimmers who had jumped off the blocks, the cheering began. Each university cheering on their own.

Unsurprisingly, the chant for 'Carl Powers' had already began.

On the second lap, Harry was starting to wonder whether the poison was working or not. But then, almost instantly after the thought had passed through his mind, Carl Powers started to loose his lead. Then slowly, almost unbearably slowly, his arms slowed their paddling and his legs stopped moving - and he started sinking.

People didn't seem to notice at first, but it soon came over the crowd that something bad had happened as the volume of the cheers lowered and the other swimmers stopped swimming. One could have heard a pin drop. Then all hell broke loose as a safety guard jumped into the water, diving down to the bottom of the pool.

There were screams, shouts and tears as the life guard pulled Carl Powers out of the pool and proclaimed him dead.

And Harry relished every moment.

...

The police, Harry thought, was getting increasingly irritable.

And it was true. The moment Carl had been proclaimed dead, someone, presumably his parents who had been sitting a few seats away from Harry, had called an ambulance and the police, who had come minutes later, alarms blaring, and lights flashing.

Luckily enough, their attention had been centred on getting Powers into the ambulance (although he was already dead), giving Harry the time to construct a perfect, innocent and slightly devastated look of an acquaintance of someone who had been murdered. The swimming hall was mostly empty. Only the Oxford students remained, staring from the stands and waiting for the coach and the chaperone to tell them to get into the bus. The police was still swarming the place, examining every nook and cranny, but yet, somehow not noticing anything.

"Dreadful isn't it?" Came a voice from Harry's right, breaking into his thoughts like an iceberg. Harry turned to him, making sure his eyes were full of pity and nodded once.

"Yes, it is, we are - w-were on the same swimming team." Harry muttered back to the young man. By the looks of it, the man was of average height, although his shoulders were abnormally broad. His face was long and aristocratic. Harry would go as far as to say he looked patrician.

"Yes, I know. I saw you get pulled out of the water by the coach," The man said and finally extended his hand for Harry to shake. There was a ring on his finger with the Windsor family crest. Ah.

"Frederick Windsor, pleasure to meet you." His accent was posh, though one could detect the boredom and repetitiveness underneath it all.

Harry grinned at him, "James Moriarty at your service!"

Windsor raised a plucked eyebrow, "I've heard about you. You're that chap from Balliol College, rooming with David Cameron? They reckon you two will rule England one day."

Harry made himself blush slightly, and instantly felt the hotness rise up his neck, "Ah, well, I think I'll leave the ruling to the Queen." Windsor chuckled politely and scratched the back of his head thoughtfully.

"I've heard you're a good mathematician?" Ah. Small talk - something Harry hated with passion.

"Well, I should hope so, Mr Windsor. I want to get a professor's degree." He said to him, now all he had to do was wait until Windsor asked him to call him by his first name. Wait for it. Wait for it -

"Call me Freddie, all my friends do."

Bingo.

Harry nodded once and was about to tell him to call him Jim when the coach appeared at the doors, dressed in his normal clothes.

"Right then, OXONIANS! Listen up!" The coach said in his usual shouting style. It seemed that a drink of water, a change of clothes and even a murder didn't change his odd way of shouting everything. "The bus is here - just go through the changing rooms and out the back. Don't move anything. Just get your stuff from the changing rooms and you can leave."

There was a sudden flurry of movement as everyone started standing up, stretching (after all they _had _been sitting there for several hours) and tumbling down the stairs, trying to get first to the bus so they could get a good seat.

The changing rooms were a mess, with everyone's stuff thrown... well, everywhere really. It took some time to find his own bag and coat, but when he finally did, Harry noticed a pair of shoes protruding out of a bag lying underneath his own.

Was he mistaken or were those... Nike... Class act shoes. Pretty exclusive. Very exclusive.

Meh, he could indulge himself once in a while... right?

Glancing about, to see if anyone was looking, Harry quickly slipped both shoes into his own bag. He could always sell them on ebay - that new website where one could sell stuff. Well, it had been founded in 1995... that was relatively new.

Or it could become his first personal trophy. Hell, Tom Riddle wasn't the only one with that type of sadistic pleasure.

Then, with that, he quickly slipped out of the swimming hall.

...

The bus ride was long. Or rather, it was short but felt long. By now all Harry wanted to do was fall down upon his bed and sleep. Perhaps he could even skip the first seminar the next morning. After all, it _was _only math. He was ahead of them all in that department - and many others.

They arrived in front of the school gates, meaning Harry had to walk all the way to his own House/College.

The college was silent as he slowly made his way up to his room. It was a Tuesday and most people had seminars the next day, no one wanted to oversleep or have a hangover. Strangely, though, the door to his own room was open, but David was at home for the week... He could see the yellowish light streaming from inside to the hallway, creating shadows along the walls and as Harry neared the door he started to hear the enchanting music of Bach echoing around his room.

Frowning, he clasped his hands loosely behind his back and pushed the door open with his foot.

Laying there, on Harry's own bed, in a suit with the cushion pushed under his arm, was Magnussen. His expression was gleeful, and triumphant as he gazed at something on David's bed. He didn't even look up at Harry as he approached, instead just let out a guttural laugh, eyes still focused on David's bed.

And as Harry neared it, he blinked as he saw a portable television laying on David's unmade bed. That thing must cost a fortune. Glancing at Magnussen, Harry wondered whether his parents were also involved in developing technology. He was however thrown of track as he saw an image of himself pop up on screen. Himself adding the poison to Powers' asthma.

Right. Not good.

He barely noticed the Bach music blare out of the television as he turned towards Magnussen, who had by then stood up, straightened his suit and was standing in front of Harry, just about half a metre away.

"Yes, I have it on tape. Yes, Cambridge's own is deleted. Yes, this is the only copy. No, I am not giving it to you and yes," He paused, his eyes glinting in the dull light coming from the lamp on Harry's desk, "This _is _blackmail."

Harry raised an eyebrow calmly and slightly sceptically, although on the inside he was panicking. How had this happened? Or right, he _might _have just forgotten that muggles had cameras.

"And... You wish me to do what?" He finally asked, after a long pause. Magnussen licked his lips and stepped away and pulled the tape out of the portable television. He waved it in front of Harry's face with a smirk.

"Oh, nothing." He said with a sing-song voice, "Your power here has grown much... to quickly. I wish for you to remember _I _rule here. _I _am the Napoleon of Black-Mail."

Harry stepped closer to him, their noses almost touching as they stared defiantly into the other's eyes. Two genius manipulative bastards fighting for the control of the future. Harry felt like a kid on a playground again.

"Well, _I _am the Napoleon of Crime," Harry murmured to him and flicked Magnussens face with his finger, causing a loud noise to echo around the room. Magnussen's eyes glinted with fury as he leaned down to Harry slightly.

"Well, then, Harry Potter, we'll just have to find our inner Nelsons. Let this be the Battle of Trafalgar: It's either you or me."

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**Ok, that was a very short chapter. I know and I apologize. I dreamt this up at school - and I just HAD to write it up. Oh, and count yourself lucky... I have an exam coming up - I was about to go and study, but as usual - I'm procrastinating. XD  
**

**Besides I think that's a good cliffhanger...? Or not? **

**Anyway, thanks for reading... If you have any questions... Just send me a pm or leave it in a review. Guests... As I said before - please leave a name so I can properly answer your questions in the next chapter. XD**

**Next chapter:... Well actually, I'm not quite sure... Anyway, have a good day/afternoon/morning/evening/night/early morning/early afternoon... (urgh, I hate time-differences.)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Wow! Thank you so much for everything - reading, reviewing *hint hint*, faving and following. This morning - well for me anyway - this story reached 100 followers - so thank you so much. And congratulations to Little Oswin Oswald for being 100th. XD**

**I haven't updated for what seems like ages - I just had a lot of exams - and well... Enjoy. I hope this isn't too short for you. Soooooo, one last thing - do you guys have any suggestions for Harry meeting someone at University. It can be from the real world, Harry Potter or Sherlock. **

**Oh, right, some of you mentioned that Harry could just use magic. Well, that will be explained partially in this chapter. Most of it will be explained in the next. XD**

**OH... and this is very IMPORTANT! THIS IS NOT SLASH!¨**

**Anyway... ENJOY!**

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_"Well, then, Harry Potter, we'll just have to find our inner Nelsons. Let this be the Battle of Trafalgar: It's either you or me."_

As Harry looked into Magnussen's eyes, he gulped mentally.

It wasn't that he was afraid... - Well, maybe a bit after all his wand was in the safe - but the power in Magnussen's eyes was outstanding. It was that sort of inner power war generals had - authoritative, intelligent. Harry could almost instantly tell that if the man were a teacher, the moment he walked into his class it would fall silent.

The mental capacity hidden behind those eyes was immense - well it had to be, seeing as the man seemed to have black-mail on every student on campus, probably hidden away in his brain.

Suddenly, Harry felt a great deal more of fright. But he stood his ground, staring at the man towering over him, refusing to be afraid. He was a genius, he'd lived with Slytherins - hell he was friends with one. Magnussen wouldn't control him.

"Well... Well... Well..." Harry said, slowly starting to circle Magnussen who turned his head quietly, eyes narrowed and inspecting every move Harry made. "You say we have to find our inner Nelsons..." Okay, this wasn't going to be his brightest ramble of them all, but it was the quickest he could think off on the spot, "But you seem to forget _we _are the Napoleons. You aren't the type of man to make threats and challenges without knowing that you have already completed the challenge. Meaning, you have found your Nelson," Harry smiled wickedly at Magnussen as the man twisted his head violently to look behind him where Harry had just passed, "_So, _what does that mean? Self-destruct?"

Harry had by now stopped right behind Magnussen, and he reached an arm over the man's shoulder, and plucked the tape out of his hands. It was slightly moist, probably from Magnussen's sweaty hands. Maybe the man wasn't as calm as he led on. Magnussen swivelled round, just as Harry waved the tape in the air.

"Now, _Charlie,_ can you do anything?" The wicked smirk was back, "_I _have a wand in my pocket." Harry patted his front pocket, thanking the stars that he'd been carrying a pen around, making it look like he had a wand on him. "_And _I have the _only_ tape in existence."

By now, the words were slipping off his tongue, his mind was swirling with thoughts all flying through a million kilometres per hour. A chill swept through Harry and he glanced quickly to his right, only to see that one of the windows was open.

"You seem to also forget that I am Harry Potter. Currently missing in the wizarding world. Do you know the things the Ministry would do to have me back?" He spat out the words, an angry snarl on his face. Magnussen's eyes had narrowed into little slits by now as he glared at Harry, who once more flicked his cheek, enjoying the quick flash of humiliation pass through the mans eyes.

"I could erase your whole history. Charles Magnussen would have never existed. And then... Then, only then, I would stick you in Azkaban," A small flash of fright echoed in the usually cold, shark - like eyes. Good, he'd heard stories of it. Harry felt a spark of triumph, this was his first manipulation attempt on a genius, "Any you know what Dementors do? They _suck _out the _soul_ from you."

Magnussen's mouth had opened a millimetre, and his eyes were slightly glazed, although Harry couldn't be that sure as the light coming off the lamp reflected on Magnussen's glasses, making it hard to look beyond.

"And you know what, Magnussen?" Harry whispered, "That's why I don't need a Nelson." With that he chucked the tape out the window. Right, he'd send Moran a text later, to go and get it. For the next few moments there was silence. Well, until they heard the thump of the tape falling into the snow. Distantly, some streets down Harry heard a dog bark a couple of times as a few drunken men started yelling out the national anthem.

"Unfortunately for you, Magnussen. _I _know many people in the wizarding world. I know the owners of the _Daily Prophet, __The Quibbler, Financial Today, Potterwatch. _And they all worship me. They all love me."

By now Magnussen was completely frozen. It seemed even his genius mind had frozen. Now the only thing Harry needed to do, was to twist the knife a little deeper.

"Money can buy you a fine dog, but only love and worship can make him wag his tail." Harry muttered, brushing past Magnussen and grabbed a book from his bedside table. He laid down on his bed, much like Magnussen had a few moments ago.

"You're not Harry Potter," Magnussen whispered into the air and Harry slowly rose his eyes from the book to look at the back of Magnussen's head. "You're Jim Moriarty. A Slytherin."

Harry rolled his eyes. "No, I am both. A Gryffindor and a Slytherin. One without the other is nothing. And you, Magnussen, are a Hufflepuff. _My _subservient Hufflepuff."

As Magnussen opened his mouth to speak but Harry stopped him with a raised hand. Harry suddenly had a flashback to one of Voldemort's Death-Eater meetings, remembering the complete power Voldemort had held over them - The Death-Eaters. He remembered the triumph Voldemort had felt. At the time it had repulsed Harry, but now... oh now, he finally understood Voldemort. That feeling of power and triumph... Harry could feel it washing over him, and he bathed in it.

"Know when you are beaten, Magnussen. You can leave," Harry said dismissively and returned to his book, eyes skimming over the words, but not really reading them, waiting for the click signifying him that the door had closed. After a few moments it happened and Harry slowly raised his eyes, gazing around the room, his tense shoulders finally relaxing somewhat.

Dumping the book on his pillow, Harry raced to his desk, and pulled out the huge plastic thing people called a mobile phone and quickly typed up a text-message to Moran to go get the tape, lying outside. SMS had been invented recently, and as far as Harry could tell, he was one of the first people to own a phone which could do that. Fortunately, Moran, who was simply a genius with computers, had helped him to learn.

Almost instantly, Harry got a message back and with a hesitant move of his thumb, he opened the file labeled with a small virtual envelope.

**I've got it, I'll destroy it in the morning. -SM.**

Grinning, Harry let all his worries wash off him as he slumped back down on the bed, not really caring about the book which was jamming into his back.

In one day, he'd managed to get someone who annoyed him killed, without anyone suspecting him - well except Magnussen, but he was already dealt with - he'd gotten new nike shoes... And even managed to get the Napoleon of Black-Mail under his thumb. So far... Not a bad day. Not bad at all.

...

Mycroft Holmes frowned deeply as he gazed around the Oxford campus. Something was different. Very different. Extremely different.

To an untrained eye, everything would seem completely normal. Very normal. Extremely normal. But not to him.

The last time he'd visited had been some three... three and a half months ago. That had been the day he'd been consulting the head master on what guest students to accept and which not to. Back then, the hierarchy of Oxford had been non-existent. Everything had been a huge mess - chaos.

Seven years ago, when Mycroft had left Oxford, he'd been the ruler. There always was one. Well, usually.

There were three steps to becoming the ruler, and every Oxonian was introduced to them when they first came to Oxford. Usually by their own classmates.

Number one was to overthrow the current king or leader. That wasn't very hard. Well, except if you weren't a genius. All the wannabe had to do was to instill fear into old leader, and make him subservient. And let _everyone _know around them.

The second step was usually a royal, or someone with lots of political connections. Either the current leader had won over a royal, probably Prince Frederick, or he just met many influential people. Glancing around the campus again, Mycroft noted that it was probably both.

Generally, this was the hardest step. Mostly because the person had to be charismatic, charming and very good with words.

The third was probably the easiest. And it had also been completed. The third step was win over the entire campus to respect the leader... Meaning all teachers, care-takers, students, assistants, had to know him and respect him.

And somehow, the current leader had managed that in three months or less.

It had taken Mycroft almost a year to do the same. And somehow, that thought made Mycroft angry. Frowning at his own pettiness, he tried to distract himself by deducing everything about the people who he passed, carefully noting those who seemed to be more aware about the hierarchy at Oxford.

There weren't many people out in the hallway, though and Mycroft tried to ignore the loud clang his cane made whenever it came in contact with the stone floor. He'd recently had an accident while skiing with his parents and Sherlock who had grudgingly come along. The Doctor's said he'd probably never regain complete movement in his right knee.

He was distracted from his thoughts however, as he reached the theatre doors.

It was an alumni meeting for everyone who had graduated in 1991 and the Head Master had organized a small concert in honour of the occasion. As usual, some hand picked students -usually the very promising ones - would also be there to have an insight into life after Oxford and Mycroft was mildly excited to meet the students.

These hand-picked students were usually those who weren't yet spoiled by politics, they still had morals and ideals. These were the students who had ideas on how to make the world better, and those ideas weren't yet spoiled by logic.

As Mycroft reached the doors he smiled politely as he saw the Head Master greeting everyone personally, a tired smile on his face.

"Ah! Mycroft! My boy!" Said the man when he spotted Mycroft in the crowd of people trying to get to their places. The man started waddling over to Mycroft who winced internally. Sherlock always teased him that he ate too much and if he continued like that he'd probably end up like the Oxford University Head Master. As the Head Master stopped in front of Mycroft and joyvally shook his hand, Mycroft noted absently that in four months the man seemed to have aged years. His hair was falling out in several places and what little tufts of hair he had had gone all white. His double chin had become slightly larger and more wobbly every time he moved his head. Nevertheless, Mycroft didn't vocalize his thoughts and instead let his hand disappear into the beefy mess the Head Master's hand was.

"Good evening, Mr McAll." Mycroft said as he pulled out his hand from between McAll's big one's. McAll ginned at him. It seemed that although he had aged, his eyes seemed only younger.

"You're sitting up at the top-box with the other professors, and the students." McAll said, his smile hinting that there was something up there that Mycroft would like. "I'll join you in a moment. You know, expectations and such."

Before Mycroft could utter another word, the Head-Master had disappeared into the crowd. Rolling his eyes, Mycroft started making his way up to the box.

All the seats except three were empty. One at the back, for a student and two at the front, for Mycroft and the Head-Master. Greeting some of his old professors, and the new ones politely, Mycroft sat down on his own comfortable red velvet seat and extended his legs in front of him, sighing in pleasure as he heard his joints fall back into their places.

"So, what happened there?" Mycroft instantly opened his eyes he hadn't noticed had closed, and swung his head to the right only to see the Head Master sitting next to him. How the hell hadn't he noticed that?

"Ah, yes," Mycroft muttered, trying not to give away that he had been shocked, "Skiing accident. Doctors say it'll never be as it was again." McAll sent him a look full of pity. But before he could answer, the noise level in the room dropped from quiet to non-existent. Slowly, Mycroft turned his head to face the entrance.

Standing there was a young man dressed in a pressed and tailored tux. His hair had been jelled back with a fashionable quiff. His height was average, but that didn't stop him from seemingly towering over people.

His face was angular and sharp, slightly battle scared - was he from the tougher parts of the country?... His nose was straight and on either side of it were two deeply set in eyes, glowing like emeralds with knowledge and genius. Mycroft wouldn't have called him classically handsome

So this was the new leader.

"Quite a sight, isn't he?" Mycroft heard from behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the Head Master peering at the young man who had by now sat down in his seat. Mycroft nodded once, humming quietly to himself.

"James Moriarty. From Ireland. He's an absolute genius with maths. And... He's the new leader. Your successor." The Head Master continued, admiration clearly in his eyes. "And he managed to do it in less than... a month and a half." Right. Impressive.

"And his court?" Mycroft whispered to him as the concert began, ignoring looks some of the new professors shot him.

"It's small. But effective. David Cameron is his spokesman. Trust me on this Mycroft, that lad will be Prime Minister one day. Anyway, Magnussen - that chap next to him, is his propaganda leader. Remember him? You convinced me to allow him to come to Oxford as a guest student. Sebastian Moran is next. His father - the MP, you know him... That boy will do anything Moriarty will tell him to do. Prince Frederick is his royal connection. He has some more - but they're not here tonight."

Mycroft tightened his hold on his cane. If that man - James Moriarty - had gathered that much influence in less than two months... Mycroft shivered at the thought of what he could become in the future.

"Introduce me to him later - at the dinner," Mycroft commanded quietly at the Head Master who nodded once, almost instantly. There was always a dinner after an alumni meeting where the old Oxonians mingled with the new and the professors with their students.

And Mycroft couldn't wait to meet him.

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**well, there... I thought it was going to be shorter. Anyway, thanks for reading!  
**

**Did anyone notice that Harry flicked Magnussen's cheek? Something that Magnussen later does to John... Ah, well, if you didn't notice - you know now. XD**

**I hope the Magnussen/Harry scene was alright. I tried to make it convincing - but seriously I'm crap at politics and writing out clever manipulative dialogues...**

**He he, now we all know why Magnussen carries an umbrella around... He doesn't want to show weakness with his cane XD. **

**Anyway, thanks for reading and following and fav-ing and possibly even reviewing... *hint hint* XD**

**Oh and before you ask... THIS IS NOT SLASH. -not that I have anything against it... I just can't write it XD**


	7. Chapter 7

**Wow, I love you guys all so much for everything. (ok, this is starting to get repetitive XD)**

**Anyway, I hope I answered every review - I usually do, but sometimes I forget or miss a couple... :/**

**Right, another thing and let me make this clear... because several people have asked me already... THIS IS NOT SLASH!**

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_"Introduce me to him later - at the dinner," Mycroft commanded quietly at the Head Master who nodded once, almost instantly. There was always a dinner after an alumni meeting where the old Oxonians mingled with the new and the professors with their students._

_And Mycroft couldn't wait to meet him._

The concert had been good - Mycroft was sure of that (after all it _was _Oxford) - but he'd barely listened to a single melody, the Head Master being a more entertaining subject of the evening. Nevertheless, Mycroft found his mind wandering several times, to the young man - Jim Moriarty - who, during the concert, had been sitting merely seats away from him.

Now though, he was standing in the other side of the reception room (as they all waited for dinner to be announced), his court surrounding him as he talked with several high-profile influential people with a polite smile on his face, hiding the cunning fox underneath who was waiting to strike.

Moriarty was going to be powerful, that much was obvious. Not just politically, but economically and financially as well, if his suit was anything to go by. It was odd though, Mycroft concluded, the man looked groomed, and was dressed in one of the nicest suits out there, but the still healing battle scars on his face and hands indicated that he had been involved in some conflict. Either he'd been a street rat before Oxford (doubtful) or he'd been in a war.

Mycroft's eyebrows furrowed again in confusion; the lad could be... what? 17? 18? And yet he was too young to have taken part in the Yugoslav Wars - which were ultimately the most recent wars. Perhaps he was from Yugoslavia? Mycroft discarded that thought quickly, if the man _was _indeed from Yugoslavia, he would have had some of the Slavic traits - which he didn't.

So according to Sherlock and as he often said, ''Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth'; Moriarty had been a street rat sometime in his past.

Somehow, Mycroft couldn't really see him as that.

He was so deep in his thoughts, he barely noticed the Head Master's beefy hand tap him on the elbow. Looking down at the large man, Mycroft raised an eyebrow and tilted his head slightly in mock confusion. Two dots of red appeared on the Head Master's cheeks and silently, to himself, Mycroft crowed at that small victory. It seemed McAll wasn't yet so fully under Moriarty's influence.

"Erm... Mycroft, are you quite all right, old boy? You've been in a trance for the past few minutes..." He trailed off as he saw Mycroft's eyes narrow into small slits.

Mycroft nodded to him in thanks, though and launched into a conversation with one of his old class mates. Slowly, though, Mycroft made his way down to the other side of the hall, greeting people and having lengthy conversations with them. It was like a dance really, and he could feel himself slowly cheering up as he felt the familiar atmosphere flow through him.

But as he reached the rather small court, he noticed Moriarty jump away from one politician and move on to the next one, slightly further away.

And so the game began. Mycroft would slowly make his way down the hall, towards Moriarty, who always seemed to find dozens of escape routes, and slip through his fingers again and again. Every single person seemed aware of it, but none of them did anything to prevent it; probably torn between deciding who to follow, Moriarty or Holmes. It was a game of cat and mouse, although for some reason, Mycroft had the feeling it was more like a game of cat and fox.

It had happened almost five times (and Mycroft was getting increasingly more frustrated though he tried not to show it), when out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft noticed Moriarty talking to the Head Master amiably, Cameron seemingly acting as his bodyguard.

Moving quickly (although his injured leg protested against it), Mcroft managed to slip into a hole in the crowd and position himself right next to McAll. Glancing at Moriarty, Mycroft noticed with satisfaction that the man was frowning slightly, and his eyes had darkened considerably, as if reacting to his very feelings. Well... That was odd. Then... his eyes were suddenly cold, outstandingly so, and if Mycroft hadn't known that it was chemically and physically impossible, he would have thought that the glass of champagne Moriarty held limply in his hand, would have frozen from the sheer coldness radiating from him.

Blinking slightly in confusion at the reaction, Mycroft glanced around, suddenly aware that the volume level of the conversations in the room had dipped down to a rather quiet mumble and that suddenly quite a few people were glancing in their direction every now and then, trying to catch snippets of the conversation.

"Well," Said the Head Master, clearing his throat soundly, and straightening himself. After all it wasn't every day one had the honour of introducing two leaders. "I really do hope you two lads have enjoyed yourselves this evening." Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft noticed the other lad, Cameron frown indignantly at the fact that the Head Master hadn't mentioned him. "Mycroft, this is James Moriarty, he's studying politics, advanced mathematics as his main courses."

He paused for a second and Mycroft mentally chuckled to himself at the layer of sweat slowly building up on the man's head.

"Jim, dear boy, this is Mycroft Holmes. He holds a _minor_ position in the government." Mycroft smiled politely and took the young man's hand, briefly noticing that his fingers were calloused, in a very odd way as if he often held a very thin pen. A quill? The back of his right hand was covered with many scars - most of them recent. There was one odd one though... Mycroft's eyes narrowed in surprise, was that a sentence? He didn't have time to properly read the white - obviously old - scar, as the next second, the young man had pulled his hand back.

Examining him once more, Mycroft briefly noticed a thin, very pale, abnormal zig zagged scar on Moriarty's forehead. Was he built out of scars or something? How could one person possibly have so many. Mycroft's attention, though was pulled back to the present as Moriarty offered a small cunning smirk.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr Holmes. I've heard a lot of things about you," He started. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?" He replied, ignoring the stares they were starting to get.

"Oh, yes, after all I needed to know how all about you to be able to repair the court that was left in shambles." The young man said, his facial expression naive and innocent, but behind those eyes, Mycroft could clearly see the eyes telling him 1:0 to team Moriarty. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, quickly trying to think up a witty answer.

"Ah, well, I imagine it must have been quite hard, after all, your... court is quite... small." Ha! 1:1!

At that Moriarty smiled thinly and put a hand on Cameron's shoulder, successfully hiding the anger Mycroft knew was behind them.

"I do not care about the quantity. Quality is, in my opinion easily the more important." He paused, glancing over at Cameron who was staring at him with adoring eyes and Mycroft suddenly felt uneasy. If Moriarty had managed to make his court so loyal to him in such a short time - what would he be in the years to come? No, Moriarty would have to be swept away somewhere remote. "I'm afraid the previous court must have been quite badly structured... for it to fall apart so easily."

And there it was - another insult 2:1, to Moriarty. How was it that Moriarty was able to manipulate him so, that he fell into all the right traps - when no one else could? The man was a genius, a dangerous genius.

In a way, Mycroft had half a mind to negotiate a little with his Russian counterpart and send Moriarty off to a gulag. But no, Moriarty seemed to have a lot of contacts, he would find a way to get the story out to the papers. Besides, he had an advantage with Magnussen... That family owned most of the major newspapers in the world.

"Well, why don't I leave you two chaps alone? I'm sure you have... er, _things, _to discuss." Mycroft barely glanced at the Head Master as he suddenly clasped his hands together and grabbed Cameron by the arm. "Cameron... Do let me show you that painting..."

Then with that, both the Head Master, Mycroft's ally and Cameron, who was Moriarty's, left, quickly and skillfully weaving through the crowd.

"Yes... Let's talk about _things_..." Moriarty said, gazing at the retreating backs with the trace of a smile. Mycroft allowed himself to roll his eyes in annoyance and gestured to the door leading to a courtyard, which then led to the dining hall where they would all later dine. Moriarty just smiled pleasantly and quickly sped off in the direction of the door, deliberately stopping several times as if to emphasize the fact that Mycroft had to walk with a cane.

The courtyard was silent, everyone seemed to have vacated it to leave the two to talk. The only noise was a distant chirping sound coming from a bird in the trees around and the crunching of snow under their feet.

Moriarty stopped in the middle of the courtyard, and grabbed a handful of snow from a nearby bush. Carefully shaping it into a ball, he tossed it from hand to hand thoughtfully.

"So... Mycroft Holmes? Minor governmental position, eh?" He asked sceptically. Mycroft watched the slowly melting snowball as it fell into Moriarty's right hand and he briefly wondered if his... enemy? was trying to use hypnosis.

"Ah... Well, that's top secret, my boy. I'm afraid simple civilians such as you aren't allowed to... know such things. Not even family can know."

Moriarty chuckled and Mycroft was suddenly reminded of an evil mastermind plotting a disastrous plan and laughing manically while doing so. "Yet... Your brother knows."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. How could he have known about Sherlock? Had the two met? How did he known he even _had _a brother? Running a mental checklist on himself, he noted the different ways Moriarty could have deduced as much, each one more unlikely than the next. Moriarty chuckled again, this time, mockingly.

"I don't suppose you're used to someone in the room being smarter than you," He said with a grin and twisted away, grabbing another handful of snow and merging it with the ice-y snowball in his hand. "Unfortunately for you, I'm in town, meaning you _and _your brothers are outsmarted." He wasn't even looking at Mycroft anymore, instead he was centred on the ball in his hands as he molded it into the perfect shape. "I advise you to keep your cane away from your younger brother in the future, buy an umbrella. At least that'll look more fashionable."

Mycroft glanced down at his cane, trying not to be too obvious, and examined the shiny wood curiously. And then he saw it... There at the bottom, there was a small spot where some acid had penetrated the glassy exterior of the cane. So... Sherlock had experimented with it. Again. Perhaps Sherrinfold had even helped him. After all, Mycroft's elder brother seemed to adore Sherlock more than anything in the world, and would do anything for him.

Farther up the cane, Mycroft spotted some light canine teeth marks and his eyes narrowed considerably. Obviously Sherlock had thought it alright to play with Redbeard and the cane.

"So... I believe you wanted to talk to me about something?" Moriarty suddenly spoke up. Mycroft looked up to see Moriarty carefully implanting ice-sickles into the snowball. Noticing Mycroft was staring at it, Moriarty grinned.

"I always but ice-sickles in... It makes the target experience quite a lot more pain."

Right. Sadistic pleasure - that was something else Mycroft could now add to the ever growing list of odd things about the young man.

Clearing his throat, Mycroft quickly made his decision on how to rid himself off Moriarty before he became a proper nuisance. Moriarty would probably decline - but it was still worth a try.

"Some months ago, some of my... colleagues were sorting through the list of very promising names... They came across yours. Apparently my superiors want you in the Northen Ireland National Security Base of Technology."

A this, the young man's head rose slowly, and he met Mycroft's gaze with slightly narrowed eyes, and suddenly he felt more exposed than usual. They both knew of course, that Mycroft was just trying to get him out of the way, after all, they _were _both relatively intelligent but as Moriarty continued staring at him, a thoughtful, considering expression on his face, Mycroft started having doubts about his not-so-brilliant-plan. Even now as they had their impromptu staring match, Mycroft could already see the wheels turning in the mans head.

"Very well," Drawled Moriarty suddenly and Mycorft frowned mentally for a second, either Moriarty wasn't as smart as he'd originally thought, or he had already planned something, hopefully it was the former. "I accept."

Mycroft blinked a couple of times but eventually let a small, polite smile grace his face as he took Moriarty's wet, cold hand in his own and shook it in agreement.

...

Throwing the snowball at the statue of a politician in the centre of the courtyard (and watching as the snowball landed just above where the heart was), Harry smirked slightly as he saw Holmes retreat back into the warmth of the hall. Northern Ireland, eh? National Security? MI5 then. Not bad. Not bad at all. Once he joined the IT department... Britain's database would be his. But more importantly... With all his contacts he'd managed to put together in his short time at Oxford and his financial status (which he was sure would soon bloom due to 'Apple), Britain would soon be his.

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**Right, that wasn't a very long chapter... But I thought that this Mycroft/Harry scene had to finish here XD.  
**

**Anyway, I hope that wasn't too dry... But I kind of needed this chapter for the development of the plot...**

**So... IRELAND! Any Irish people out there? Gosh, I'm really excited about Ireland for some reason...**

**Anyway, next chapter:... Nah... I won't so spoilers XD**

**Thanks for reading - and sorry for that ramble XD - and reviewing *hint hint* and faving and following.. I appreciate every single little thing XD Oh... and I hope you liked my interpretation of "you know what happened to the other one" as Mycroft said in season 3 XD... And Redbeard... God, I love that dog XD Sherlock petting it was the cutest thing ever... Anyone else agree?  
**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hello again! Thank you so much for reading so far and reviewing and fav-ing and following. I appreciate every single thing...**

**Anyway, I've been really excited to write Ireland for some reason... I hope you guys like it XD ENJOY!  
**

**Oh, and sorry in advance. This chapter will be really really crappy. ;(**

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_Throwing the snowball at the statue of a politician in the centre of the courtyard (and watching as the snowball landed just above where the heart was), Harry smirked slightly as he saw Holmes retreat back into the warmth of the hall. Northern Ireland, eh? National Security? MI5 then. Not bad. Not bad at all. Once he joined the IT department... Britain's database would be his. But more importantly... With all his contacts he'd managed to put together in his short time at Oxford and his financial status (which he was sure would soon bloom due to 'Apple), Britain would soon be his._

The PNSI headquarters were surprisingly small, Harry thought as he stared up at the glass building. Well, then again, Northern Ireland wasn't particularly big either.

He had moved up to Northern Ireland last week, on Christmas. And now a week later, he was already starting his new job. Apparently, the head superintendent didn't seem to think agents wanted to celebrate Christmas and New Year's with their families.

Well, it wasn't like Harry really had anyone to go to for the 'holidays'. As a small child, he had quickly become disillusioned by religious holidays, well, that and his birthday. The Dursley's never seemed to really care about him at all. Even at Christmas, they would ignore him. Granted, that seemed to be the only day in the whole year when they didn't threaten him with locking him in the cupboard under the stairs.

It had all changed though, when Harry had come to Hogwarts. Suddenly he'd had friends to celebrate with... Friends who cared about him... Gave him presents and cards. But... Obviously they didn't care anymore. A part of Harry had wanted to receive some sign from them, that they still cared. Perhaps that was why he had lowered the power of the wards around his new home (a small flat on the outskirts of Belfast).

The only cards and presents he had received had been from his court. From them he'd received a small jar of hair jell, to keep his 'fucked up hair' (as the card put it) under control. A second present he'd received had been a paid exam to become a mathematics professor, which he had instantly cashed in and was now waiting for the diploma to be sent to him as he had absolutely no doubts that he had passed.

In a way, that small part of him that had been awaiting some sort of contact from the wizarding community, was hurt. Hurt that no one had cared to even try to contact him. Did they think he was dead? If so, had they held a funeral? Closing his eyes briefly, Harry forced his mind to concentrate on the present. The past didn't matter now. He wasn't Harry Potter anymore.

And with those thoughts, he walked straight through the dirty glass doors of the Police Service of Northern Ireland headquarters.

...

The secretary at the lobby had greeted him warmly and had given him a badge with 'RB - IT Agent' printed on it. Then he had been sent up to the second floor to the investigative force where he had been assigned to a team.

As the doors of the lift opened at the second floor, Harry quickly stepped out, so as not to get squashed by the masses of people getting in and out. Standing in the corridor between the two lifts was a man.

In a way he was average in every sense. From his height to his appearance. It was like he had graduated from 'Average School' in 'Averagetown', 'Average-ania'. His hair was cropped short in a military style, shirt tucked into his trousers which were stuck into short leather-y boots. Perfect for the weather here.

Over his shirt he was wearing a wrinkled suit which Harry took as a sign of him being single. Either that - or his girlfriend didn't live with him yet. Tucked into his belt was a small badge which identified him as an agent. Possibly one of the team Harry would be joining.

Seeing Harry standing awkwardly next to the closing doors of the lift, the man examined him from head to toe until his eyes rested on the small name-tag on Harry's mammoth coat. His face broke out in a smile as he stepped forward, hand extended. Raising an eyebrow at the enthusiasm, Harry took the hand elegantly, shaking it as if he was royalty - something he had managed to perfect at Oxford.

"Hello!" The man exclaimed, eagerly shaking Harry's hand. "It's not often we get someone new here!"

Harry smiled politely, and released the man's hand after a moment. "Good morning. My name is Richard Brooke. Apparently, I'm your new IT agent?" The moment Harry had moved to Ireland, he had forged yet another identity for himself, this time giving himself the name Richard Brooke. Harry Potter would be for his affairs in the wizarding community. James Moriarty for anything illegal and Richard Brooke for all his legal matters.

"Yes, yes." The man paused as if suddenly realizing something, "I'm Greg Lestrade, and yeah, you'll be joining our team. Not that it's anything exciting." He started walking towards the doors, and gestured to Harry to follow him, "We're only three people on the team. Me, Dimmock and Jones - she's the head of the forensic force." He paused and glanced at Harry. "By the way, our team takes care of murders. Not that exciting... So I hope you can stomach some of the stuff.

Harry nodded along, mentally frowning in thought. Why had Mycroft stuck him here? After all, Belfast was the second largest city in the UK, and Harry really doubted that Holmes's power had already reached Northern Ireland. In a way, Holmes had given him the best hunting grounds. Perhaps the man had thought that isolating him from his court would hinder his power?

They entered one of the smallest rooms, which was only separated from the others by thin glass walls, through which Harry could clearly see people rushing about, getting different folders to their colleagues. In the room they were currently standing in though, there were four desks, three covered in papers, files and little bits of food. The fourth was completely clean, and resting right in the middle of it was a large apple computer.

"Jones and Dimmock are out getting coffee." Lestrade said, falling into his leather chair in a rather ungraceful manner. Harry, nodded once and chucked his backpack down on his desk. Walking around the desk, he sat down on the chair gracefully, ignoring Lestrade's stare and turned the computer on.

"So, how did you end up here? You're what... seventeen? Eighteen?" Lestrade asked suddenly, and when Harry glanced at him, he noticed the man was leaning on his elbow and had twisted his body to the side to look at Harry.

Harry raised his right shoulder for a few seconds, then let it drop. "Meh, I was at Oxford. The MI6 spotted me. I'm a genius, so they decided to put me to use as soon as possible."

There. He'd been arrogant. Well, in all fairness, he was allowed to. After all, how many other teens managed to catch up on seven years of education and then become the best in the country in mathematics and computer programming/hacking? ... _And _he had managed to create his own mind palace. Well, that could be his magic helping him - but still.

Lestrade's eyes had widened and was staring openly now.

"Really?" He mumbled more to himself than to Harry.

"And... You? How did you end up here? You're not Irish?" Harry asked, trying to keep up the friendly atmosphere in the room. Breaking the ice so to speak. Lestrade rolled his eyes and scrunched up his nose as he looked around. Sighing, he leaned back, folded his arms behind his back and stretched out his legs.

"Nah, I'm not Irish. I'm from Somerset." He sighed again and glared around the room again. "I want to become an inspector in Scotland Yard, down in London. They told me I need some experience first, so they sent me up here to work with Dimmock who's also gathering experience to work in Scotland Yard. Jones joined us a month or so ago. She moved up here with her autistic son."

Harry shifted his attention back to the screen of the computer as he saw the 'set up' box appear. Quickly creating an account and a complicated password, he pressed enter and waited the computer to sort itself out.

"Well... Good luck with that." In a way, Harry really wanted Lestrade to succeed, after all, if he became an inspector in Scotland Yard later on... As he was about to open his mouth and continue with the small talk, the glass door opened with a loud 'whoosh', revealing another average looking man and a medium height, young woman.

The thing however that caused him to stare, was the woman.

It wasn't like she was exceptionally beautiful or anything. It was her eyes. There was knowledge and intelligence behind those beautiful eyes, a sort of depth Harry hadn't encountered in anyone before. However the most beautiful thing about them though, was the spark. The spark of life, which shone through, making Harry's heart flutter and his legs turn to jelly.

Harry furrowed his eyebrows as he replayed every thing he had just thought. Since when did he look at women? Hadn't he already confirmed he was asexual?

Standing up, Harry reached out with his hand to the two people.

"Richard Brooke, pleasure to meet you." He said with a smile, although inwardly, he was frowning deeper than he had ever done. Dimmock, the average looking man, who's hands were free instantly reached out with his own.

"'Ello. I'm Tim Dimmock." He grinned and Harry inwardly winced. Right, this guy was the idiot of the team. He shook the woman's hand next and allowed himself to examine her, convincing himself quietly that it was purely to deduce stuff.

"I'm Jones, Jenny Jones," She smiled, and Harry noted her teeth were straight and white. Her hands were rough and calloused as if she wrote a lot. There was a smear of food on the sleeve of her white blouse - probably her autistic son.

"He's our new IT guy." Lestrade mumbled and stretched out his arms in front of him again as if to relive aching muscles and joints. Had he slept on the sofa? Ahhh, he had a girlfriend who was mad at him so he had slept on the sofa.

Jones stumbled towards her own desk, on the way setting a cup of coffee on everyone's desk.

Harry frowned as she deposited one on his own desk. He absolutely _hated _coffee. Apart from coffee and Voldemort, he didn't think there was anything else he hated as much. Well... Maybe dementors... And annoying people... and idiots... Someone back at Oxford (before he had become the leader) had started a joke, calling him Moriar - tea. Mostly because he couldn't function properly without at least one sip of the beverage every single morning.

Jones noticed his reaction and raised an eyebrow.

"Problem?" She asked with as smirk. Harry shot her a small glare, although out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Lestrade rolling his eyes.

"Meh, coffee's boring. Not particularly my favourite beverage." He muttered, "Your son doesn't seem to like it much either. After all, he spilled it over you this morning." He paused, enjoying the shocked expression which flickered over her face for a few seconds, "How old is he? One? Two?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could now see Lestrade and Dimmock staring at him. Well, the latter was frowning confusedly.

"How d'you know that?" Lestrade exclaimed. Harry smirked and turned his attention back to the computer, which had by now loaded. After several minutes of debating with himself he had decided the 'food smudge' on her sleeve was some spilled coffee, her young son had managed to get over her that morning. He could tell the approximate age by the wrinkles on her blouse near her hip. She had been holding him in place around there... So according to the approximate weight a woman could carry and the area where the child had been resting - his age had to be around one to two.

"No, seriously, how did you know?" Dimmock echoed, a confused frown on his face. Rolling his eyes Harry gestured at the wrinkles and then at the smudge.

"Wrinkles - the child's been resting against he hip. Smudge - probably it was the child who spilled the coffee."

Dimmock blinked at him then looked at Jones, then turned to stare at Harry again. "But how did you know that the kid spilled the coffee?"

Harry let out a long-suffering sigh as he shot a glare at him. Jones though was grinning silently, nodding. Lestrade was blinking in surprise.

"Well. Lestrade said earlier that _Jones and her son _moved up here. Husband? Boyfriend? A man wasn't mentioned. Thus, she lives alone with her son. If she had been living with someone - that someone would have probably held the child while she got herself a cup of coffee." It was far-fetched, Harry knew. But in his opinion, deduction to him was guessing most of the time. He knew many people would disagree with him. But that was what a person basically did - found the facts and then guessed several theories. While not foolproof - it was still a good tactic, and less time-consuming.

Dimmock seemed to considering it silently to himself. Lestrade though, clasped his hands together and let out a bark of laughter. "Guess we know now why the MI6 chose you to work for them!"

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**Well... Harry's being nostalgic now. ;( **

**Anyway, I'm not sure where I'm taking the story right now - although... I DO have a plot. Sort of. Anyway, next chapter will be a time-jump. Perhaps... six months or a year... I'm not sure yet. **

**Ok, sorry for that really crappy chapter. I promise to redeem it in the next one. XD Hopefully. Oh, and I hope you liked the 'Richard Brooke' thing. XD**

**Thanks for reading! (please leave a review and tell me what you think, It'll be greatly appreciated XD)**

**So yeah, sorry for the crappy chapter and the crappy deductions :3**


	9. Chapter 9

**Ok, another short chapter... BUT I typed it up in about an hour... I'm proud of myself. XD**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy it... It doesn't have a lot to do with Sherlock... But it's necessary for the plot... You'll realize why in the next chapter. XD**

**I just watched the 'Russian Sherlock Holmes' has anyone else seen it? Apparently it came out in 2013... It's amazingly goooooood...**

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Harry stared into his glass filled with a strong sort of alcohol.

He wasn't sure anymore what it was, he'd had so many. His head hurt already, a pounding headache which he was sure would soon become a migraine if the pressure on his eyes was anything to go by. Frowning he took another swig from the glass and frowned as the liquid burned down his throat. It wasn't quite like firewhisky, but it would do for the time being. Besides, he couldn't very well come up to a _ muggle _bartender and ask for a firewhisky.

Frowning again, he contemplated the orange-brownish liquid, every now and then splashing against the walls of the glass as he made a sudden movement. As he raised the glass to his lips once more, he noticed ripples appear in the liquid - whatever it was. Glancing down at his hand he noted it was shaking and with one longing glance at the glass, he set it back down on the counter of the bar. No more drinking tonight... After all, he still somehow had to get home.

Ah, home.

Two months had passed since he'd joined the PNSI. Two months since he'd started working properly... But his arrogance had got to him. Mycroft hadn't been looking to ruin him politically... or even financially... No, he'd been trying to ruin him psychologically... Via his financial status.

Somehow, that man, that insufferable man, had managed to convince the Apple company not to pay him his share until Harry turned twenty one. Apparently, that was the legal age to earn from a company. _Legal age, my ass, _Harry thought, snorting into his glass.

His money had quickly started running out after one month... Suddenly he couldn't pay the bills anymore, or even his flat. So, after two months of living in that small, but comfortable flat, he'd been thrown out onto the street by the landowner.

His income, from work, wasn't particularly large, just five pounds the hour, the minimum wage (for an 18 year old) legally allowed in Great Britain. ***1 **Hardly enough to pay his bills, flat, transport (train every day) and food.

On top of that, he'd been thrown out onto the street just today and as any sensible young man would do, he'd gone straight to the local pub to drink off his sorrow.

Glancing down at his glass, Harry contemplated it for another few seconds before he threw his head back, hitting the wall behind him slightly and chugged the rest of his drink down his throat. He set the cup down on the rickety counter and glared at the glass, full of ice, as if it was all it's fault.

"Brooke?"

Harry barely glanced up at the sound of his 'legal' name being spoken, he was glad he did though. Standing next to the counter, was a woman - Jenny, from his team. Her wavy brown hair was brushed back, although a little wet, presumably from the rain. Was it raining? Her make-up had been ruined, all of it was runny, and smeared upon her face as if she'd been crying. She was dressed in a pair of black jeans and a dark blue blouse, currently half hidden behind her thick professional looking coat.

"Yeah?" Harry answered back. Probably best to keep to short answers right now, seeing as his voice was raspy... And his speech would probably be quite slurred if he spoke. Jenny sighed deeply and slumped down into her seat, right next to the one in the corner which Harry had claimed.

"What are you doing here?" She asked, eyes narrowed. Harry narrowed his own, trying to look past his drunken haziness, and deduce something about her - anything.

"Oi! None of that deducing shit right now!" She exclaimed and sniffed his glass, raising an eyebrow as she realized what he'd been drinking. Harry just shrugged and raised his hand to the bartender, signalling for a new glass. Jenny frowned and pulled his hand back down. Glancing back at the confused bartender she gently shook her head, negating Harry's order.

"How drunk are you?"

Harry shrugged again, "That drunk that I can't deduce shit?" Harry mumbled and scratched the back of his head. Jenny furrowed her eyebrows and Harry smiled inwardly, admiring her inner strength. How strong was this woman exactly, to be drowning in her own misery, yet trying to help another human being?

"Well, then... spill?" It was formed as a sort-of question, but Harry could hear the demand behind it.

"I got kicked out of my flat," Harry muttered, suddenly feeling a little better to be spilling out his problems, "I have no money left... But you know what?" Harry asked, a crooked mile appearing on his face, "If I had all the money I wasted on drink... I buy more." Jenny whacked him on the back of his head with her rather hard leather bag. Harry rolled his eyes at her. "And you? What happened to you?"

He was about to raise his hand again, to signal the bartender, but Jenny pulled it down again. Ah... How could a person know him this well after two months? Better than Hermione and Ron had done after sever _years. _

"My boyfriend of two months dumped me." She sighed deeply, "Said he couldn't continue dating me when I have an autistic son."

"Harsh." Harry muttered, clutching his head which was slowly getting worse. Jenny shrugged and suddenly slipped off her chair.

"Well, then. Rich, come on stand up. You need a place to sleep, yeah?"

Harry blinked at her in confusion but finally nodded. "Yeah. I do."

"I have a free bedroom. If you want you can stay there, pay for the food and help out a little?" She asked a little hopefully. Harry furrowed his eyebrows. Kindness? He hadn't encountered _that _for a while.

"Fine." He finally grumbled out. With a gentle smile, she slowly helped him up to his feet, and he flushed slightly when he realized he was swaying slightly. How had he allowed himself to sink so far into the world of alcohol?

They barely spoke on the way back to her own flat. It was only about two blocks away, but it took much longer as she had to support a swaying Harry down the street. As they walked, or rather stumbled, Harry could feel his mind clearing a little, the cold February wind helping a little. The 'larger on the inside' bag seemed to be weighing a lot suddenly.

The flat was small, well, a little bigger than Harry's former flat, but still small. The kitchen and the living room had been merged into one room, although it seemed to be the centre of the flat as there were four doors all going in different directions.

A young teenager greeted them, a frustrated look about her as she glared at one of the doors.

"Urgh! I'm not babysitting that monster again!" She exclaimed in a hushed whisper, grabbing her coat and rushing out the doors, not even pausing to get her pay.

Jenny groaned and slumped onto the sofa. "That's the third babysitter I've gone through in two weeks!"

Harry shrugged, and slid down to the floor, leaning against the wall, and hugging his legs to his chest with his hands, "My babysitters all hated me when I was a child. I turned out all right."

There was a pause, and slowly, Jenny rose slightly propping herself on her elbows so that she could see Harry over the top of the sofa.

"Yeah. I see that, you turned out all right. An alcoholic." She muttered sarcastically. Harry shrugged and said with a grin, "At least I didn't have a kid before I turned twenty-five."

Seconds later a cushion had slammed into his face. Before he could reply, there was a wail from one of the doors and a kid, dressed in a superman pyjama and no older than two suddenly bolted from the room, running to his mother, a frightened expression on his face as he hugged her waist. Harry quickly stood up, and wandered towards the kitchen area, noting that the babysitter had left the spaghetti boiling.

It was almost fifteen minutes later when Jenny wandered over to him, an exhausted look about her as she started helping him with the dishes. She had changed already and was dressed in a fluffy morning robe, concealing her nightie. Harry forced himself to concentrate on the dishes.

"So how old is he? The kid? What's his name?"

She glanced sideways at Harry, who was grimacing every now and then, due to the pain in his head.

"Do you want an aspirin?"

Harry stared at her incredulously, "With all the alcohol I had?" She had the decency to blush. "So...?" Harry prompted. She shrugged.

"He's two and a half. Autistic, mainly because I used antibiotic medicine while I was pregnant. At the time, they didn't know it could cause autism." Jenny paused her movements for a moment, before resuming to wash the dishes while Harry waited for her to give him one to dry off, "The father... He died about a year ago. That's why me and Phillip - that's my son's name - moved up here. To leave it all behind."

Suddenly she looked even more sullen. Her shoulders had slumped forward, and her neck was bent, causing the shadows around her eyes to increase and give her a more tired look. Harry awkwardly put a hand on her shoulder and patted it. Then, suddenly, there was another wail. Instantly Jenny's shoulders tensed and she straightened.

"Oh, God. Can't he just go to sleep?"

Before he knew it, Harry had thrown the towel on the counter and had moved to Phillip's room.

"I'll put him to bed... Just relax. I'm good with kids." Before she could answer he had opened the door and bolted through. Right, good with kids... Like hell. The best he'd ever done was the DA club at Hogwarts. Sighing he turned his attention to... Phillip.

The boy had stopped wailing the moment Harry had stepped through the door and was now staring at him curiously, not a little bit frightened. Harry smiled at him gently, trying to look friendly. It came out more like a grimace. Nevertheless, it seemed to work on the kid because seconds later, he smiled back.

Harry noticed a book on the bedside table and gestured to it, eyebrows raised. After a few moments, the boy nodded.

Taking the book in his hands, Harry turned it over to read the title.

_Grimm's Fairy Tales._

Slowly, as not to alert the boy, Harry sat down on the bed, and opened the book, aware that Phillip was staring at him. Flicking over to a random page, Harry started reading, aware that this was probably the very first fairy tale he'd ever read. Well, apart from the one about the Deathly Hallows Hermione had read out to them.

"It happened that the cat met the fox in a forest, and as she thought to herself..."

...

Jenny felt slightly anxious about letting a half-drunken man into her son's room. OK, maybe not slightly anxious... Perhaps something more like... VERY anxious. Finishing the dishes, she glanced at Phillip's door, which had been left ajar.

Light shone through the little crack, and through that little crack, Jenny could hear Richard's gentle and calming voice muttering something to Phillip who giggled every now and then. How had Richard done it? He was obviously reading out from a book... But how? Whenever she did it, Phillip never seemed to care at all, and just... ignored her and continued playing with his toys.

It baffled her a lot... How Richard did many things. He was a genius, that much was obvious from how he solved cases by merely glancing at the reports. He was a gentle soul, well, at least that was what she saw, without looking deeper. She had tried to... Very hard, to look deeper into him... But he was so guarded.

That man, that impossible man, had lost so, so much. The pain was barely hidden behind the steel, cynical eyes. Sometimes though, when he wasn't guarding himself, she glanced at him and saw a sadistic, Machiavellian man who would do anything to be the most powerful. And at other times, he seemed like the most sensitive, gentle soul she had ever met. He was like... A living contradiction... And she felt so attracted by that.

Another giggle, though, snapped her from her thoughts and she glanced at the door once more. Silently, she sneaked up to the crack and glanced through it... and saw the most beautiful image.

Phillip was lying on the bed, clutching his duvet, staring at Richard, eyes wide and completely enraptured in the story Richard was telling.

The Grimm's fairy tales book was open on Richard's lap, but it seemed he had already finished the story, because instead from reading from it, he was grinning at Phillip, eyes wide as he told his own imaginary tale.

"...And then," Suddenly, Richard's voice had fallen to a whisper, "As the boy, Harry, stared at the mirror, he saw his reflection slip a red stone in his pocket. And then... Seconds later, he felt something heavy appear in his pocket..."

Jenny smiled gently, as she listened to the story herself.

Maybe, just maybe, she'd been waiting all her life for that one special person who seemed to understand her so well.

* * *

**Ok... Sorry for all that Romantic shit. This is my first attempt in my life to write romance. Mainly cause when I write it... it sounds quite cheesy.  
**

**Anyway, so... someone's crushing!¨ XD Anyway... The next chapter will have more to do with Sherlock and stuff... These scenes were necessary for the plot to continue. I hope they were all right. **

**So... If you want to... And only if you want to... I'm not pressuring you or anything... you could... leave a review?**


	10. Chapter 10

**Ok, perhaps this isn't going to be my most interesting chapter... or best written... But still, you'll get a surprise in the end. (hopefully) XD Meh, I've already ruined the fact that you get a surprise at the end. Sorry.  
**

**Aaaaanyway, thanks for the reviews, follows, favs and of course for reading XD... This story wouldn't be here without you guys... So cheers! XD And well... I've got Pentecost holidays sooooo I have to study a lot for the last term which goes on until July... Sad I know. At least our new school year starts on September 2. Just like Hogwarts XD. Anyway, sorry for that ramble and ENJOOOOOOOY!**

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"I still don't get why you quit the PSNI!" Lestrade exclaimed, glancing at Harry, as he handed the man in the stall a couple of coins and got a coffee in return. The man in the stall stared at them oddly, perhaps he thought Harry looked too young to be working in a police force?

Harry though, rolled his eyes, shrugging. "They weren't paying me enough. Besides, Jenny got me a better job." It was true. Jenny _had _gotten him a better job. Apparently, a friend of hers... Martha was it? ...had contacts to some children's television program director who had in turn needed a new actor to tell stories. Jenny had recommended him... and that was it. He'd quickly gotten the job, quit the one in the PSNI and now, three months later, was a much happier man.

Blinking, Harry turned his attention back to Lestrade who was sniggering into his cup, which was steaming. "What?" Harry said with a frown. Lestrade continued sniggering.

"No, seriously, what?"

"Someone's got a crush!" Lestrade finally exclaimed in a sing-song voice, and then dissolved into peals of laughter. Harry raised an elegant eyebrow and folded his hands behind his back, waiting calmly as Lestrade slowly regained his composure.

When he finally had straightened his dress-shirt (which had a couple of coffee stains here and there), and straightened, Harry began to talk innocently, "So, just... coincidentally, Sylvia Collins is moving down to London... on the exactly same day as you are... A week from now?"

Lestrade blushed scarlet and seemed to fumble for a moment with an answer. "How did you know? Only the boss knows that I'm moving down to work at Scotland Yard!" Lestrade paused, staring at Harry who had adopted the knowing smirk that everyone seemed to really hate. "You know what? Don't tell me."

Harry _had _in fact, only known about Lestrade's because although he had quit working at the PSNI, he had still managed to hack into the main database quite a while ago. PSNI workers were obligated to tell their superiors when they entered a relationship they thought was going to be serious, or was already. Apparently, this was done for insurance issues and the like. Lestrade was apparently registered to be in a serious relationship with one Sylvia Collins from the department of theft.

About a week ago, Harry had been searching through the database for any people he knew. Oddly, though, anyone he looked up from the wizarding world didn't really seem to exist. The only thing the database had was a birth certificate and a graduation certificate from a fancy named school somewhere in Scotland. Obviously, this was an alias for Hogwarts. Then, after that, those people seemed to completely disappear.

It was that way that he'd discovered that Hermione and Ron had married at Christmas. Needless to say he'd been conflicted at that moment. In a way, he'd been happy that they hadn't even thought of sending him an invitation, he'd been happy that they'd forgotten about him. But somehow, disappointment still somehow managed to worm it's way into his heart. They hadn't even thought of him. They had abandoned him. Then, ever so carefully, he'd built a new wall around his heart. This time made of steel.

"Oi! Richard!?"

Harry blinked hurriedly several times, to bring his eyes back into focus and turned slightly to look at Lestrade politely, who simply stared back with that deadpan look of his.

"What about you? Staying here?"

Harry shrugged again and turned his thoughts back to Jenny and her son, Phillip. Somehow, they had managed to worm themselves into his heart, before the steel wall. Even though his job now allowed him to get his own flat, he couldn't imagine not living without them.

"I don't know. But... Yeah, I think I'll stay here. There's not much for me back in England."

And there wasn't. He hadn't contacted his court in more than five months, somehow, Jenny quenching him of his thirst of sadistic and criminal pleasure. Suddenly, he realized he hadn't done anything against the law for more than five months - well, except the database. But that was an exception. He wasn't exactly using it to do criminal stuff. Hell, he hadn't even thought of doing anything illegal in a few months.

"Well, yeah. I suppose you have Jenny and Phillip here," Lestrade muttered and sipped his coffee noisily. In a way, Harry didn't want to return back to England, not back to all that destruction that Voldemort had left behind. In Ireland, he was known as 'the cute and funny story-teller', children adored him (well, those that recognized him - and those weren't many)... and he had his own sort of family. He wouldn't say he was in a relationship with Jenny... but they were close. They would cuddle in front of the television, watching trashy movies and making fun of the actors forced to play such roles... Sometimes, he went ton walks with her and Phillip... Or on trips to different amusement parks. And according to Jenny they were going to one today.

"And you," Harry grinned at Lestrade, who had almost accidentally, become a good friend of his, "Lestrade. Detective Inspector Lestrade. Ha! I can almost see that. You, wearing a trench coat, your DS staring at you with awe." Harry chuckled to himself. Lestrade grinned back.

"Well, I'm only a DS for now. But... I'll get to DI soon. You'll see." Lestrade said, finishing his coffee, a determined expression on his face.

"And Dimmock? He wants to work in Scotland Yard as well, right?"

Lestrade sighed, and rubbed his face with the back of his hand, "Yeah, well, they said they only had one spot. But they said they might have another one open next year."

Harry grimaced at Lestrade. Dimmock was known to be... slightly aggressive. He'd been working for the PSNI longer than Lestrade, and he'd been trying to get into Scotland Yard for longer. Needless to say, the scene wouldn't be pretty when he found out that Lestrade got the position before him.

He was startled out of his thoughts when Lestrade's phone started ringing. Harry grimaced at the tone, it was that horrible 'Stayin' Alive' song everyone had been playing recently. He'd liked it at the beginning, but now... it had gotten quite annoying, not that it wasn't his own ring-tone.

Lestrade muttered an apology and stepped aside for a moment, and flicked open the phone.

"A woman?...Yeah, I'm busy... Doesn't matter... I'll be right there." Lestrade rolled his eyes as he shut the phone and tucked it back into his pocket.

"Someone's car been run over. Hit an run - typical." He paused for a moment, eyes flickering over Harry's face which was as impassive as always. "Do you want to come with? Like... last case together?"

Harry smirked at him, "Sure."

...

The scene at which they had arrived was horrible. A black Nissan - which was almost unrecognizable if not for the metal plaque reading 'Nissan' - was destroyed. Apparently the driver of the other car had somehow managed to crash right into the middle of the car, thus pushing it against the wall and flattening everything and anything inside.

Harry grimaced slightly, feeling oddly sympathetic for the family who was related to the injured woman.

"Lestrade!" Dimmock's voice called them over, and Harry tried to stop the urge to roll his eyes at the idiotic man. He was standing next to someone from the forensic department, holding a notebook, no doubt doodling as usual.

"What's he doing here?" Dimmock snarled, jerking a thumb at Harry as they came to a stop next to him. Somehow, Harry and him had never managed to get along. Mainly because Harry thought of Dimmock as an idiot and Dimmock was envious of Harry's genius.

"He was invited by me... Eh, as a consultant for this case." It was a lie and all three of them (and the forensic agent) knew it. Dimmock though, rolled his eyes, probably not willing to mess with Harry again as last time... He'd ended up being suspended from duty for two weeks.

"Yeah. Anyway," Dimmock said with a grumble, "Witnesses say they saw a blue Opel, crash into that Nissan," He jerked his thumb rather ungracefully at the destroyed car, "A woman and a kid were inside. The kid's dead. The woman's just been sent off with the ambulance (she's dead though - or almost), her face was too bashed in to ID her but we're searching for her ID in the car."

Harry slowly felt unease sink into him. Jenny and Phillip had been panning on going to Belfast's amusement park today... But she usually rented a Rover - the cheapest car to rent.

"Found it!" Exclaimed a young man from on the side of the car smashed into the wall. He was holding up an ID, waving it in the air excitedly. No doubt, this was his first job out in the field. One of his older colleagues jerked it out of his hand and passed it to Lestrade, ignoring Dimmock's outstretched one. Obviously, Dimmock had already messed up before Harry and Lestrade had arrived. Harry sent a smirk his way. Dimmock ignored him.

"Richard," Lestrade said gently and a little too softly and as Harry's eyes locked onto his, he realized. He'd seen that look many times before during the war. That look, that told you 'I'm sorry for your loss'. Harry barely glanced at the ID picture, knowing that if he'd look down, his tears would soon follow. Magic wouldn't - couldn't help now. She was dead.

And in the middle of all that sorrow he choked out a small laugh. Oh, the irony of it... 'Stayin' Alive' being the song that had declared her death.

...

The living room back at Jenny's flat was dark, as Harry had drawn the blinds to match his depressive mood. A couple of bottles of beer lay about, some shattered, some balancing on the corners of tables, about to be shattered. The TV had been left on the ITV channel, and was showing some sort of soap opera, about which Harry couldn't care less. The air was thick with tobacco smoke, all of which Harry had managed to produce himself.

The doors to Phillip's and Jenny's former rooms were slightly opened and through them, Harry could see they had been emptied by someone, he wasn't even sure who, as the last week and a half had been spent in a drunken daze.

Moments of soberness were almost non-existent now, and headaches seemed to dominate everything.

Harry himself, lay on sofa which had, up until Harry started living on it, smelled of Jenny and her horrible perfume. That horrible smell, had somehow calmed Harry, giving him some sort of peace. But now, it was gone, just like her and Phillip's lives.

Harry was sure he looked like shit. Worse, than he ever had. Probably worse than when he had been a small child, locked in the cupboard under the stairs. Raising a hand to feel his face, he noticed he had managed to grow a pitiful beard.

Raising his other hand to his face, Harry examined the picture clutched in his hand once more.

It was a picture of Jenny, Phillip and himself, all grinning happily at the camera. Behind them, generated by a green screen at some amusement park, was the view to a magnificent castle, not unlike Hogwarts. He'd chosen this specific picture to stare at mainly because the spark of life in Jenny's eyes was present there, more so than in most pictures. She just looked... happy.

In the picture, Harry was dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. His face was calm, and his eyes had somehow managed to project a sort of happiness Harry was sure he wouldn't be able to show anymore. He'd just lost one too many of his loved ones.

Phillip was his usual happy self, holding his mother's and Harry's hand, and somehow... In the picture they looked like a normal family, albeit a little young.

And it was then and there, at that very moment, Harry realized he had loved them. Deeply and unconditionally. And somehow, their deaths had been what caused him to realize as such.

Suddenly glaring down at the picture, Harry furrowed his eyebrows. What exactly was he doing here? Moping about, sulking, wishing someone would rescue him from his misery... No, he had to pull himself out... By himself.

Love... Ha! Love had done this to him. That unforgivable, irresistable _emotion_ had done this to him. Perhaps... He had only loved her because she had been the first kind person he'd ever met. His childhood had been abysmal... a chaotic mix of abuse, manipulations and betrayals... Perhaps he'd been wishing so hard to love that he'd ultimately fallen in love.

Rising slowly from the horribly smelling sofa, he glanced at the picture once more, and twisting the upper corners in opposite ways, he ripped it in half. He let go, and watched the two pieces float down to the carpeted floor.

...

David was nervously chewed his nails, ignoring the scathing looks Magnussen was giving him.

Just over a day ago, all members of _his_ court had received the message to meet up at 'The Manor' in Little Hangleton, a small village in North England. He wasn't quite sure why Jim had chosen that particular spot... But it was ominous enough.

From the outside, the house had looked like it had belonged to someone rich, and on the gates, there had been a plaque reading: 'The Riddle Manor'. How had Moriarty acquired this? At Oxford he hadn't seemed particularly well off, his clothes had always been a size too big, or small and his utensils, all cheap and from the local drug store. Was he a descendant of the Riddles?

In a way, David wanted to know more about Jim's past... But he was sure that he'd end up being more frightened of the man than he already was... So he chose not to think about it much.

Glancing around, he saw Magnussen wringing his sweaty hands, obviously nervous. Behind him Prince Frederick was leaning against one of the many dust-covered cupboards, looking calm and composed as though he was attending just one more royal ball. To his right, was Moran, who was sitting in an armchair next to the unlit fire, looking every bit like an excited puppy, waiting for his master to come.

Everything was silent... or as silent as could be in the ancient, creaky drawing room. If David wasn't an atheist, he would have thought that ghosts travelled through this very house, making it creak every now and then.

"David, it's unbecoming of you to... ah, chew your nails." Said a loud and slightly irish accented voice from the door.

David instantly spun around, recognizing the voice, despite the Irish tingle in it. Standing there, in the doorway, was James Moriarty. The first thought that jumped into David's mind was 'different'. And he was. The man standing before them, wasn't the wiry, genius, but slightly awkward kid they'd all known while he was at Oxford. No, this man was powerful, and now, one could see it not only in his eyes, but in his stance as well.

He was of the same height as well, but he seemed to tower over all of them, even Magnussen just by simply looking at them, with that superior look in his eyes. His face had become slightly longer, and more aristocratic, his hair was gelled back slickly, making him look serious. His clothing sense had changed quite a lot as well. He was dressed in a pressed and tailored back suit, and a marine blue dress shirt. The most prominent change however, wasn't the clothing, or the physical featured; it was his eyes.

Whereas before, they had been dark with sadness and a slight tingle of madness and genius... They now were deep, eternal wells of revenge, madness, genius, determination and... power. Outstanding power which he held over everything; his emotions, the room, hell even David felt slightly dizzy when that intense gaze locked onto his.

Nevertheless, he grinned.

This was going to be one hell of a ride.

* * *

**OK, I hope you aren't mad with me for killing Jenny and Phillip off. *cowers behind a book as several people shout at her* But she was going to go from the beginning... Such is life. Besides, I needed a reason for Jim/Harry/Richard to return to England... and I needed a reason for Moriarty to be so bitter. The best way to do that is via broken heart. :,C**

**Anyway, thanks a lot for reading. If you spot any mistakes... Either leave it in a review *hint hint* or PM it to me. I'll be happy to correct anything. XD If you have any questions... same thing **

**Btw, I just watched the Day of the Doctor again... 11 and 10 are so cute together :3 And the war Doctor is soooooo awesome. God, I'm fangirling again XD**


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